


If Equal Affection Cannot Be

by blueink3



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Family, Fluff, Happy Ending, Loneliness, M/M, Nothing exists after TLD, Post-Season/Series 04, Retirementlock, Reunions, Sexy Times, Sherlock (TV) Season/Series 04 Fix-it, Sussex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-08 22:36:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 31,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11656116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueink3/pseuds/blueink3
Summary: Sherlock fled London a couple of years after John left him in hospital with nothing but an old walking stick and a half-hearted goodbye.Rosie grew up thinking that Sherlock died when he committed suicide in front of her father by jumping from Barts' roof.So it's somewhat awkward when they run into each other in a Sussex general store between the loaves of bread and the Mars bars...





	1. If Equal Affection Cannot Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock fled London a couple of years after John left him in hospital with nothing but an old walking stick and a half-hearted goodbye. 
> 
> Rosie grew up thinking that Sherlock died when he committed suicide in front of her father by jumping from Barts' roof.
> 
> So it's somewhat awkward when they run into each other in a Sussex general store between the loaves of bread and the Mars bars...

He wakes to birds singing instead of bins rattling these days, with soft sunlight filtering through the sheer curtains Mrs. Hudson made him get all those years ago. The moths have got at some of them, but he hasn’t the heart to replace them. Not yet. Not when he still hears her voice in his head so clearly:

_“It just looks so drab, dear. Liven it up a little. A lace frill won’t kill you.”_

_“It might,”_ he had replied, but she merely shook her head and reappeared later that afternoon with a package from the local haberdasher.

He smiles at the memory and throws the covers back, grunting as he sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed. His knees ache these days - too many years spent climbing over roofs and bins and gates in Oxfords - and he brushes a hand down his face as he flexes his toes against the cold hardwood floor.

It’s been just over fifteen years since he left London behind. Mrs. Hudson is still kicking, though perhaps not as high, and he travels back solely for tea with her once a month. The city doesn’t quite have the same pull as it once did, so an afternoon or an evening (or a night if they get into the herbal soothers) is enough to whet his appetite.

Yes he’s retired, and enjoying every moment of it. So much so that even the ghost of a particular army doctor doesn't call him out anymore on this partial truth.

His phone chimes on the nightstand and he reaches over, unplugs it, and checks the incoming message.

 **Sally Donovan**  
**_Got a weird one for you._ **

Well, he’s semi-retired.

 **How so?**  
**-SH**

 **Sally Donovan**  
**_Pagan ritual. Three dead._ **  
**_Missing reproductive_ **  
**_organs. Room locked_ **  
**_from the inside._ **

_Hmm_. It does sound tempting. But dismembered bodies are no longer his bread and butter.

 **Send photos. Will research.**  
**-SH**

 **Sally Donovan**  
**_Saint Sherlock,_ **  
**_saving my arse yet_ **  
**_again._ **

It's a change in tone since he first stumbled into the Yard, to be sure, but their relationship was never quite as frosty once he returned like Lazarus from the dead.

 **Quite the opposite,**  
**Detective Inspector.**  
**-SH**

Donovan and Mrs. Hudson are really his only two remaining ties to London. Mycroft doesn't count and Lestrade had swapped his badge for a pension just after Sherlock moved. The former DI prefers to come to Sussex, using Sherlock as an excuse to escape the city and staying in the cottage’s spare room for a night or two. They've actually become close, their stresses falling away to reveal an easy sort of companionship. Sure, Lestrade still decries his ignorance of rugby and Sherlock still pretends not to know his name, but it's a gentle teasing these days. They've grown too old for anything else.

John Watson’s name does not cross either of their lips.

He stands with a stretch and scratches his belly, letting out an obnoxious yawn. It's only gone 8am - plenty of time to start the day. Throwing his dressing gown over his pajamas, he pads down the stairs, careful not to trip over the border collie thumping his tail at the bottom.

“Good morning, Edison,” he greets, bending down to scratch behind his ears. Edison gives him a lick to his cheek and stands to follow Sherlock into the kitchen. He's getting too old these days to navigate the steep stairs of the old house so Sherlock set up a dog bed at the bottom, even though some nights, he carries him up himself for the company. Others, Edison prefers to stay by the embers of the dying fire in the living room before settling on his bed to sleep until Sherlock wakes him in the morning. Sherlock misses him those nights. And resolves to give him an extra treat or two when they come back from their morning errands.

The French press provides strong coffee and he groans as he pours himself a cup. He’s cut back on his sugar intake, per his doctor, and he sneers as he dumps in only one spoonful. Apparently that’s something he should monitor as he approaches 60. _Hideous_.

He opens the cabinets and is greeted with a sack of onions and not much else.

“Nothing in,” he sighs. “Edison, how could you let this happen?”

Edison cocks his head and thumps his tail.

“Typical,” he scoffs, taking his cup of coffee out into the back garden and checking on his hives from a distance. It’s a grey morning, as so many are these days, but there’s a sense of peace out here in the country. If he closes his eyes, he can almost hear the gentle hum of the bees as they go about their work. He makes a mental note to bring Mrs. Hudson another jar of honey when he next heads to London.

He heads back inside and finishes his coffee at the wooden kitchen table, using a toe to rub Edison’s belly where he’s sprawled at his feet as he checks the news on his laptop. Nothing about the pagan rituals. He opens his email and finds an unread message from DI Donovan and the symbol signaling an attachment. His stomach rumbles and he closes the laptop. Perhaps the missing reproductive organs can wait until after breakfast. His constitution is getting fragile in his old age, even if his appetite is growing.

He’s out of eggs and there’s no one else to go to the shop anymore so he eventually pulls on proper trousers and a jumper (not unlike the loathsome cable knit one he burned so many years ago), tugs on his shoes (wellies, not Oxfords) and trudges out the door, forgoing his usual scarf, but pulling a cap on his head if only to hide the silver that is starting to rapidly overtake the brown.

The sun is peeking through the clouds and Edison is a comforting presence at his side as he straightens the potted plant that the mailman continually knocks over. He’s half blind, though, so Sherlock can’t really fault him.

His garden has suffered through a rough spring and he bends down with a groan and feels how dry the petals are. A little too crinkly for his liking. He'll pick up some fertilizer from the Wagners’ farm on his way home.

“You up for it, boy?” he asks as he pulls the bike away from the stone wall surrounding the property.

As a puppy, he used to stick Edison in the basket at the front of the handlebars, but the dog rapidly outgrew the tradition. Still, despite his advancing years, the border collie is good for a steady trot and he barks to show he’s ready to go.

“All right, then,” Sherlock replies, kicking the kickstand and straddling the seat. “Tally ho.”

The ride to town is perhaps fifteen minutes by bike at Edison’s pace. Eight or so by car, depending on whether or not the sheep decide to make a detour into the road. It’s a small town, quiet, with one general store, one post office, one doctor, and one police station. It fits his needs perfectly, his needs being a distinct difference from the life he once had. The one that got him out of bed in the morning (if not always off the couch), that brought him to Barts and into the company of one of the RAMC’s finest, that sustained him for two years of horrors as he fought his way back home.

 _Home._ London is no longer that for him.

He pulls up in front of the general store and dismounts, leaning his bike against the wall and bending down to congratulate Edison on a good jog.

“William!” Mrs. McGregor greets cheerily as the bell over the door trills.

“Hello,” he replies with a smile, tipping his cap and wiping the mud from his wellies off on the well-worn mat.

 _William._ It’s still odd enough to hear, let alone respond to, but Holmes is a common enough name. It’s ‘Sherlock’ that gives him away. William Holmes was easy to adapt to. A welcome change, in fact, that didn’t even require too much paperwork - just a license that omitted his middle names. It’s not as if he’s trying to hide his existence per se; he still posts his findings on his blog and answers the occasional email, but it’s mainly just research and bees these days, with the odd favor for DI Donovan. It’s not so much that he’s erasing Sherlock Holmes but that Sherlock Holmes doesn’t really exist anymore. ‘William’ means fewer questions, and after a lifetime of asking them, he’s all questioned out.

“Eggs?” Mrs. McGregor asks and Sherlock nods as Edison makes a beeline for the counter where he knows a treat awaits him. Mrs. McGregor has a soft spot for the local dogs and Edison in particular.

“Please. A dozen.”

“Right-o.”

He picks up one of the tiny baskets on offer for the shop’s customers and places a loaf of freshly baked bread in it, followed by tomatoes, a couple of tins of beans, and milk.

There is a group of girls huddled in the corner going over the candy options. Odd, considering the median age of the town is at least 52. Sherlock himself is on the far side of that, which is why four young women barely pushing twenty stand out in the shop. Then again, the town is on the way to the seaside. They frequently get tourists and the like popping in to appreciate the history and the food of the local pub.

He grabs a few more things (fresh meat to make up for the distinct lack of takeaway, coffee beans, and a few bars of dark chocolate to replace the sugar he’s not putting in his tea) and makes his way to the register, pulling them out of the basket for Mrs. McGregor to scan. She puts everything, including the carefully wrapped eggs, in a paper bag and accepts the money Sherlock is holding out, getting him his change from the old-fashioned till.

“Nice weather for it,” she says, nodding at his bike propped up against the window outside.

He hums. “Indeed.”

She gives him an encouraging smile and he musters one in return, suppressing his urge to roll his eyes. He knows she thinks he’s sad. Lonely. And honestly, he can’t deny it, but it’s just a general sense of melancholy. Not the crippling anxiety and horrible depression he faced when he first came here.

“Hey, boy,” one of the girls says as she bends down and scratches behind Edison’s ears just the way he likes it. He thumps his tail and practically preens under the attention. She laughs and plays with his ears, following him down to the floor when he tilts sideways and rolls over to show her his belly is feeling neglected.

“He’ll have you there all day if you’re not careful,” Sherlock murmurs, pocketing the money Mrs. McGregor has given him as the girl lifts her head of dirty blonde curls and smiles with an expression Sherlock hasn’t seen in nearly two decades.

“I’m happy to oblige,” she chuckles, finally meeting his gaze and knocking the breath from his lungs. The familiarity in her features nearly cripples him ( _those_ eyes) but it must be coincidence no matter what blasted Mycroft says about it. It must be, because there’s no way a part of John Watson followed him here, of all places… But then her smile flickers and a million things pass across her face: recognition, hesitancy, hope, caution, incredulity, and finally, dismissal.

Or Sherlock is just seeing things.

“Come along, Edison,” he manages, clearing his throat and slapping his thigh so the dog will stand. “We’ve taken up enough of this young lady’s time.”

“Not a bother,” she replies, eyes soft, but searching.

He turns before he can get lost in them and tips his cap again to Mrs. McGregor as he exits, placing the shopping in the basket and not daring to look through the window once more.

Regardless, she manages to haunt him all the way back to the cottage, yet he convinces himself that it’s just a bad day (a Watson relapse, if you will) and that he’s seeing ghosts in the corners of his mind palace. Plenty of girls have that coloring. That smile. Those eyes.

It isn’t until he’s scrambling eggs, having showered and pressed himself another cup of coffee, that he hears the knock and truly begins to question his sanity. And he would chalk it up to the growing pains of an old house, to the advancing of his years and the diminishing of his hearing, but Edison begins to bark, proving that, yes, someone definitely did knock on the door.

“Hush, you,” he murmurs, petting the dog as he passes and wiping his other hand on the apron he wears that reads: “In dog years, I’m dead.” Lestrade had gotten it for him for his 50th birthday and he realized that making pancakes (a Sunday tradition since relocating) was rather messy so he kept it, as ridiculous as it is. Still, Lestrade was “chuffed” (his words) when he saw it hanging on the back of the pantry door.

He glances out the tiny window above the umbrella stand but can’t see anything so he undoes the latch and pulls it back, bracing for any number of things -

But the girl he saw in the shop is decidedly not one of them.

She stares at him for a moment, gaze flitting over his hair, his nose, his mouth, his ears, before locking on his eyes and never leaving.

“It is you,” she breathes and Sherlock’s heart proceeds at a gallop.

“Me, who?” he manages, grip tight and sweaty on the knob.

“The great Sherlock Holmes,” she replies with a small smile and not a little bit of reverence.

He shakes his head and begins to close the door. “I’m afraid you must be mistaken.”

And if the hand she shoots out doesn’t stop it from closing, her words certainly do: “Would you really lie to John Watson’s daughter?”

And the bottom drops out from beneath his feet.

_Rosie._

He just stares at her for a moment, eyes wide, cataloguing everything he refused to see in the shop.

It isn’t until she says, “I go by Rose these days,” that he realizes he said her name out loud.

“How did you find me?” he finally breathes.

“Coincidence, honestly,” she whispers, as if speaking any louder would shatter both of them. “I thought I was imagining things, but then the lady in the shop called you ‘William.”

“And?” Certainly that would throw her off the scent, no?

She tilts her head and the corner of her mouth quirks up the same way John’s does. “William Sherlock Scott Holmes. That’s the whole of it, isn’t it?”

He gapes, mouth working but nothing comes out until he’s saved by the honk of a horn, which causes both of them to jump.

“Rose!” the girl leaning on the side of the old BMW calls. “In or out? We gotta go! Mum’ll have my head if I’m not back by one!”

“Go ahead!” she calls back.

“What?!” the friend squawks. “Are you serious? I’m not leaving you alone in the middle of the bloody countryside with a potential madman! No offense, mate,” she adds as an afterthought and Sherlock decides he likes her immensely.

“I’ll be fine, Em. Really.”

This ‘Em’ person stares at her skeptically with a force that even Sherlock might wither under. Rosie huffs and marches back down the path to the car, banging her hand against the window to startle the two other faces that are pressed against the glass before leaning in and whispering something in Em’s ear.

“Holy shit, really?” Em blurts, rather indiscreetly. “That’s him?”

Rosie rolls her eyes and turns towards Sherlock far enough that he can see the blush on her cheeks, before spinning again and pulling Em in for a private conference once more.

Sherlock, for his part, does nothing but shuffle his feet as he stands in the doorway, wondering what in the hell he’s supposed to do now. This was not how he anticipated his day going when he rolled out of bed this morning.

With Rosie’s tete-a-tete with Em apparently finished, the former sticks her head in the open window of the car and pops the boot as the latter fixes Sherlock with a look, pointing to her eyes and then to him, as if to say _I’m watching you_.

Sherlock truly wonders what sort of twilight zone he’s entered into.

“Text me every hour on the hour,” Em instructs as she opens the car door and Rosie waves over her head as she heads up back to the house, bag in hand. The two girls in the backseat continue to look both confused and intrigued. Sherlock can tell Em is filling them in at lightspeed as the car peels away from the gate, one passenger short.

“Just what on earth do you think you’re doing?” he asks, just barely dropping the ‘young lady’ at the end of it as she comes to stand before him.

“I think you and I have a lot to be catching up on, don’t you?” she asks, but she doesn’t pass by him (even though there’s plenty of room for her to do so) until he gestures that she may. She gives him a genuine, if nervous grin hidden under layers of bravado. No doubt she has her father to thank for that.

“How did you even find out where I lived?”

Rosie shrugs. “Just asked the lady at the shop.”

“Ah.” _Bloody Mrs. McGregor._ No more honey for her.

He stares at Rosie once more, pulse thrumming at realizing John Watson’s daughter is in his house. A house he had tried _so hard_ to keep John Watson-free. Likewise, Rosie seems to have lost the courage she showed when she kept him from slamming the door in her face, as she glances around the foyer hesitantly, taking in the knick-knacks and evidence of a life well lived.

“Smells good,” she murmurs as he shows her to the living room.

He takes her bag like the good host he is, still not completely sure he’s awake, and gestures towards the kitchen beyond. “Eggs. Would you like some?”

Her stomach grumbles, a betrayal of trust if there ever was one, and Sherlock chuckles as he drops the bag and leads the way into the kitchen. He flicks the kettle on and stirs the eggs, thankful he thought to turn the fire down when he went to answer the door. Edison follows his every move, waiting for a piece of food to fall to the stone floor. Rosie’s gaze is nearly as bad, clocking every shift of his body, every detail her father likely omitted during her upbringing.

“Shoo, you menace,” Sherlock finally says after the third time he trips over the dog, and Edison only too happily trots over to his bed (one of many) and curls up by the stove. “You can have a seat, too, you know.” He gestures to one of the wooden chairs around the table in the corner of the renovated kitchen.

She slides onto the seat, looking suddenly small amid the stone flooring and granite countertops, as if the magnitude of what she just did is only just now hitting her.

He places a mug of tea in front of her, because that fixes everything, along with a cup of milk and bowl of sugar. “Drink something before you fall over,” he murmurs, turning to the stove and scooping the eggs onto a plate. The toast pops a moment later and he puts out some of Mrs. McGregor’s homemade jam.

If John saw him now, he’d probably have a heart attack. He’s become quite the chef in his solitude.

“How did you end up here?” he asks as he sits opposite her.

Rosie spoons some eggs onto a wedge of toast and takes a bite. “The town? We were in Eastbourne. Maria’s parents have a house. We stopped here to get some snacks on the way home.”

He raises an eyebrow, leaving his own food untouched for the moment. “And you had no idea I lived here?”

She snorts. “Up until four months ago, I had no idea you were alive.”

This fact both pleases and breaks him. He had asked Lestrade not to tell John where he was (not that John would ask), but the fact that John let his own daughter believe that he was dead cut swiftly and deeply. “Lestrade didn’t say anything?”

She looks confused. “Lestr - you mean Uncle Greg?”

It’s Sherlock’s turn to roll his eyes. “Yes, _Uncle_ Greg.”

“No.” She shakes her head. “Wait - he knows where you live?”

“Obviously. He’s been here many times.” He finally scoops a bite of egg into his mouth, but whatever reaction he had been expecting, her features turning to stone was not one of them.

“I see.”

“Oh don’t sulk,” he says as he swallows and her features harden further.  

“He lied to my father.”

“And your father lied to you,” Sherlock hotly retorts before he can think better of it. “He told you I was dead, did he not? Lestrade lied because I asked him to. Your father lied because he wanted to.”

She swallows, but remains silent.

“See? People in glass houses… whatever.” He honestly can’t remember how the saying goes. John said it to him once. Or twice.

“Shouldn’t throw stones,” she quietly replies.

Ah yes, that was it. Clearly he wasn’t the only one on the receiving end of that particular advice.

He takes a bite of his toast, but finds his appetite has rather fled. Even Edison seems to be judging him from the corner for his outburst. And yet -

“He said you died when you jumped off a roof,” she quietly says.

Sherlock shifts his weight on his chair and takes a sip of his tepid tea. “Well, in his defense, he’s not entirely wrong.”

“I know the story. The beginning at least,” she adds wryly. “You don’t have to… go through it.”  

 _Thank God for that._ “There’s been plenty of press on it, I’m told.”

She bites her lip and tucks a stray curl behind her ear, and for the first time all morning, Sherlock finally allows himself to study her. She has John’s eyes and chin, but Mary’s nose and ears. Soft straw-colored curls that look equally blonde and brown, depending on what light she’s standing in. She’s wearing jeans and converse trainers, plus an oversized navy and white striped jumper that looks like it might have been pilfered from the back of John’s closet. And until this very moment, Sherlock doesn’t realize how much he missed her.

He clears his throat and forces another sip of tea. “You said you thought I was dead up until four months ago. What happened?”

She sighs and plays with her eggs, pushing them around the plate with her fork. “I found a newspaper clipping from 2015. According to my father, you had already been dead for three years, but there you were. In a photo. Standing right next to him.”

“I'm shocked your father didn't try to tear down every article on the World Wide Web to keep you from finding out.”

She executes a perfect eye roll. “I'm sure he did.”

They chuckle in the shared knowledge of John’s overprotective streak, but both sober quickly.

“Does he know?” Sherlock asks as he licks his lips.

“That I know?” she clarifies and he nods. “No. You were always just this… black hole. A name whispered in corners. A topic people would change whenever I got near.’

“For good reason. I got your mother killed.”

She sucks in a breath at his bluntness but she doesn’t look upset. “We both know that’s not true,” she simply says.

 _John would beg to differ,_ his mind unhelpfully supplies.

“You are so like your father,” he quietly replies instead.

She cocks her head. “How so?”

“You keep surprising me.”

She smiles and continues to pretend to eat her food. Sherlock doesn’t think either of them are particularly hungry anymore. He stands and picks up his plate, gesturing to hers and she nods sheepishly, wiping her mouth on her napkin as she follows him to the sink.

“Thank you,” she says as he washes them both and he hums in return.

She leans against the counter and takes in the coziness of the space. “What do you do out here anyway? Seems a long way off from semtex vests.”

He pauses. “How do you know about that?”

She fixes him with a look that says, _Really?_ “I’m John Watson’s daughter. Of course I read the bloody blog.”

He wants to laugh, but a thought occurs. “Then why did you think I was dead? He continued to write after I came back. We still had cases.”

She shrugs, open features shuttering. “He made those posts private at some point. They’re not up anymore.”

He raises an eyebrow. “And how do you know they’re private, young lady?”

She smirks and tugs on the hem of her jumper. “I might have hacked his computer.”

“Good girl,” he says, rather impressed and she beams under the praise. “I have bees.”

“Sorry?” She frowns at the abrupt topic change.

“In answer to your question of what I do out here. I have bees.” He nods through the kitchen window and she follows his gaze to the hives beyond. When she turns back, her eyes sparkle.

“Will you show me?” she asks and something in his chest warms.

“Of course I will,” he whispers.

She giggles the entire time she’s putting on the bee suit and he’d be lying if he said he doesn’t find it all terribly endearing. So much so that he only complains a bit when she makes him take a photo of her. She wanted one of the both of them (a selfie or some such nonsense) but he refused. Wouldn’t be good for John to find it on her phone. Still, it’s the first time anyone has shown real interest (Greg doesn’t beyond throwing a “thank you!” out the window to the hives whenever Sherlock hands him a jar of honey to take home), and he finds he’s eager to share this with someone. He details the process and she’s enthralled, asking the appropriate questions and taking a photo of a particularly large bee hovering around a nearby flower.

“Can we harvest it?”

He hums. “Not yet. Only about 60% of the cells are capped. We need to wait until at least 75% are before we can extract the honey.”

“Oh.” She looks a tad disappointed and he knows deep in his soul that he must immediately remove that look from her face.

“I have jars in the kitchen. I’ll serve it with tea.”

Her eyes light up. “That sounds great.”

He takes her through the garden and points out all that he's growing, followed by an impromptu game of fetch with Edison and a tour of the shed he converted into a lab. She’s studying English literature so this is all a bit foreign to her, but she’s still curious, ever the doctor’s daughter. By the time they head back into the house, he feels a satisfying exhaustion. That’s more than he’s talked in a single afternoon in a long while. A glance at the wall clock tells him it’s further into the afternoon than he had realized, well past tea time. He fills the kettle and goes about pulling out the fixings as Rosie sits at the kitchen table and fiddles with her phone.

“We have to look into getting you home,” he says carefully. He’s hesitant to say goodbye - now that he has this connection to his old life, he’s loath to give it up - but he also knows that the longer he spends in Rosie Watson’s presence means the weaker the fortifications around his heart become. It took him years to get to the level of benign resignation he lives with every day. To go backwards, to open those doors and feel that pain again - he just can’t.

Rosie pauses, biting her lip (his first clue she’s about to do something a bit not good), and hits only one button on the mobile (a favorite then… likely John). _Christ._

His heart sticks in his throat as she puts the mobile to her ear and listens to it ring.

“Hi, Daddy,” she greets.

“ _Daddy_ ,” he mutters, stirring the sugar into his tea harder than necessary, yet his heart thumps at the thought of John being _right there._ If he strains, he can hear the soft sound of his voice through the mobile’s tinny speaker.

“Yeah, I know, I'm sorry,” Rosie continues, “but we've decided to stay another night, so I'll be back tomorrow.”

_What?_

“...If that’s okay,” she says just as much to Sherlock as to John. He waves his arms as if flagging down a 747 and she gives him a sheepish yet sly look and blatantly ignores him.

“Yep, I just didn't want you to worry… Uh huh… Love you too. Bye!” She hangs up with a look of cautious triumph and slides the mobile into her back pocket. “Nothing to it.” She shrugs and he glares.

“You call him back and tell him the truth right now.”

“No.”

“Yes! Now!” Edison barks as if to back up his point. 

“Why?” she cries. “Are you that eager to get rid of me? Why is it such a big deal?”

And that’s it - that’s all Sherlock can take. “Because he'll find out and then he'll hate me!” he yells and Rosie, ever her father’s daughter, barely flinches.

“Doesn't he already?” She doesn’t say it unkindly, but it hurts more than he expects it to.

“You tell me,” he replies evenly.

She eyes him for a moment more, before sighing, sitting back down, and pulling her tea closer. “Don't you have a car?”

“Of course I have a car. That doesn't mean I want to drive John Watson’s daughter two hours because she abandoned her ride.”

“From what I hear, you're my godfather. So I'm not _just_ John Watson’s daughter, now am I.”

She has him there. _Damn._

“And the nearest train station will do,” she finishes a bit coldly.

The nearest one is still a solid half hour away and it’s already nearing dinner time. He’s not putting her on a train at this hour. Besides, she already told her father she was spending the night. Might as well make one thing true in this whole mess.

“The answer is yes, by the way,” he murmurs after an extended silence and she frowns.

“What answer?”

“He does hate me.”

She looks sad for a moment. “That's what you both would like to think, isn't it.”

And he doesn't quite know what to do with that.

“Look, I’m sorry I barged in on you,” she continues, oblivious to his inner conflict. “I’m completely in the wrong, but… I finally found you. Did you really think I’d let you go so easily?”

“You just said I was a name whispered in corners. You didn’t even know I existed.”

“Yes, I did.” She smiles softly and plays with the necklace just brushing the top of her shirt. “You were the hero in my fairytales.”

 _Wait - what?_ “Excuse me?” he manages.

She smiles crookedly and traces the whorls in the wood of the table. “Dad used to tell me stories of a great detective every night before I went to bed. It wasn’t until I got older and overheard enough conversations I wasn’t supposed to that I realized my great detective was real.” She glances up at him and he realizes he’s holding his breath. “He never used your name. It was just the Detective, capital D. Then I found Dad’s blog and the coincidences were insurmountable. The universe is rarely so lazy.”

He smiles despite himself and lets out a low chuckle.

“What?” she asks.

“Nothing,” he replies, feeling warm inside. “Just - something my brother and I use to say. How's spag bol for dinner?”

She grins again and he sees John in her features. “Perfect.”

They’ve only just finished their tea and the promised honey on toast, but the sauce will take at least three hours to simmer. They can start it now and it’ll be ready at a reasonable hour. He pulls out a box of rigatoni, two cans of plum tomatoes, a bottle of red wine, and a package of ground beef, and puts her on chopping duty which she scrunches her nose at.

“Punishment?” she wryly asks, holding up an onion.

“Perhaps,” he replies, gently nudging her with an elbow as he drops a block of butter in the pot on the hob.

She gets to work on the onion, celery, and carrots without complaint though, knife gliding through the vegetables as he circles olive oil around the bottom of the pot. She passes off the onions first and he dumps them in, turning the flame on and watching as the butter gradually melts.

He pops open the bottle of wine and pours himself a glass, raising it to his nose and inhaling before taking a sip. He pauses for a second, not used to accommodating someone else besides Lestrade, so he pulls out another glass and fills it up, sliding it across the counter to her as she raises an eyebrow.

“Don’t look at me like that. I was there when you were born. Literally. I know you’re old enough.”

She puts down the knife and picks up the glass, smiling coyly over the rim, but it doesn’t last. “Really? You were there?”

“Indeed.” He stirs the onions with a wooden spoon, watching them slowly turn translucent.

“Oh. Dad never said.”

“Yes, well, I doubt he thought it important.” He clears his throat. “Finished?”  

“Yep.” She gestures grandly to the neat piles of celery and carrots. “What next?” she asks and he tosses a package of bacon at her, which she barely catches without spilling her wine.

“Chop, chop,” he urges, and she rolls her eyes as he stands there and sips his wine.

Silence descends, broken only by the tick of the hall clock and an occasional whine from Edison for scraps. He takes the bacon from Rosie when she finishes and is perturbed to find her expression troubled. He figures she’ll speak in her own time, though, so he turns and dumps the bacon in with the onions, stirring with the wooden spoon until it starts to brown.

He keeps his glass in his left hand, raising it for a sip as he scrolls through the recipe in his mind palace. _Ground beef next, followed by salt and pepper and then milk._

“Aren’t you going to ask me about my father?” Her voice breaks through his concentration and the glass pauses halfway to his lips.

“Do you want me to?” He turns slowly to find her leaning against the counter and fiddling with a lock of hair.  
  
“I just... figured you’d be interested.”

He places the wooden spoon down, followed by the glass of wine, and sighs heavily. “Sometimes it’s just easier not to know. Ignorance is bliss, as they say.”

“What happened to the two of you?” She asks like it breaks her heart to do so. Perhaps it does. He’s not sure what exactly she knows of their history. Sherlock certainly finds it heartbreaking, or he did before he barred that part of his life behind a door in his mind palace. A door whose lock Rosamund Watson is slowly starting to pick.

Like father, like daughter.

He turns back to the counter and dumps the ground beef into the pot. “That’s not my story to tell.”

“Yes, it is,” is her fierce retort.

He braces himself against the granite and lets his head hang down low. “Maybe. But it should come from your father.”

“Sherlock - ”

“Rosie, _please._ ”

Begging. He’s _begging._ How does it only take one person to make him regress 20 years and nearly bring him to his knees?

Her hand covers his on the counter and holds on tight.

Not just any person, though. No. Watsons apparently have that effect on him.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers and he hears the wobble in her voice. He’s not sure he can turn and see the tears in her eyes and physically remain upright.

He clears his throat and nods, covering the hand that covers his briefly before reaching for the wooden spoon once more and stirring the browning mince.

“I didn’t mean... “ she trails off and wipes a surreptitious hand over her face. “I’ve made a complete mess of things.”

“No more than I did all those years ago. Will you get the milk out of the fridge for me and measure out two cups?”

“Sure,” she whispers and gets to it, leaving Sherlock to wipe the back of his hand over his own face and blame the wetness that comes away on the onions.

He pours in the milk, stirring frequently until it’s cooked off, and then adding nutmeg. The task lets his mind wander to the hives, the honey, Mrs. McGregor, and Edison. Not to London or whoever might live in it. Next comes the wine and he kills the bottle, refilling both of their glasses in the process.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, startling him as he nearly forgot she was there. John used to do the same thing. Only then does he notice she’s set the table while he’s been ‘away.’

He dumps the tomatoes in and fills another pot with water for the pasta so it’s ready to go when the sauce has simmered enough. He picks up his glass and gestures that she should follow him into the living room. It’s a bit more comfortable than the wooden table in the kitchen and he can always travel the short distance every so often to stir the pot’s contents.

He fixes a fire and then settles into the plush chair, its dark green plaid upholstery more befitting the country than the leather and metal piece he left behind in 221B. Rosie curls up on the leather sofa, kicking her shoes off and pulling her feet beneath her like a cat. She takes a sip of wine and watches as the wood in the grate catches fire. Edison sits on the floor in front of her like the traitor he is. She reaches down with her free hand and lazily strokes his head. 

“When did you last see me?” she asks out of the blue and Sherlock has to halt the audible hitch in his breath at the memory.

_“Anyone but you.”_

He squeezes his eyes shut ever so briefly before opening them once more. “You were four months old. Your mother had just died.”

_“Anyone.”_

She considers this for a moment. “When did you _really_ last see me?”

Sherlock sighs. The girl is too smart for her own good. “You were three. Your father had taken you to the playground and was pushing you in the swings.” His fingers clench on the fragile stem of his glass. “You were so… happy. Shrieking and giggling and yelling ‘higher!” It was then I realized that I couldn’t live in London anymore.”

She visibly swallows and stares into the fire once more. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault. How’s Oxford?” he asks, quickly changing the topic as her eyes go wide.

“How’d you know I was at Oxford?”

He shrugs, the gesture feeling foreign after years of not having to deflect. “Lestrade tells me things. But only when I ask.”

“About me and Dad?”

His chest hurts. “Just you.”

“Oh.” She shifts on the couch and takes a rather large gulp of wine.

Awkwardness begins to creep in and he finds himself gripping the arms of the chair, knowing that what he’s about to do is not in his best interest and yet he can’t help himself.

“Is he well?”

Her face softens at the mention of her father, but there’s something deeper. Something melancholy that he empathizes with on a visceral level.

“Well enough. He took my going away to uni pretty hard. It’s always just been the two of us and now he’s all alone.” She picks at the throw pillow Mrs. Hudson made him buy for decoration. “He makes a good show of it, but I worry sometimes.”

“He’s a strong man, your father.”

“The strongest one I know.”

He really should have brought another bottle of wine in from the kitchen.

“Look, Rosie you are my goddaughter. And, despite some appearances, I am happy you found me. I know you have questions and I’ll try to answer as many as I can. But there are some I can’t or won’t and I need you to respect that.”

During his speech, she had sat upright and is now perched so close to the edge of the sofa, she’s about to fall on the floor, which Edison would not appreciate. “I will. I promise. How did you meet?”

Cutting right to the chase then, he thinks. Odd first question, though. Surely she knows. “You’ve read the blog.”

“I want it from the source.”

He stretches his legs out and crosses his ankles. His knees protest. “Is your father not a source? Pretty sure he was there.”

“He’s a sensationalist,” she says with a flick of her wrist. “He tends to romanticize things.”

“ _Thank_ you,” he bursts out. “Been telling him that for years.”

She laughs as she stands and heads for the kitchen. He’s about to ask where she’s going, but she answers before he can. “Stirring the bolognese and getting another bottle of wine.”

Clever girl. “There’s a small wine rack in the pantry. Should be a Brunello.”

“Sounds fancy.”

“Well, it’s a special occasion.”

When she comes back clutching the newly opened bottle of wine, her ears are a bit pink from the compliment.

“We met at Barts,” Sherlock continues as she fills up his glass and sets the bottle on the coffee table. “He had run into his old friend Mike Stamford - ”

“Uncle Mike,” she says and he’s not sure why it catches him so off guard, but it does. Sure, John met up with Mike occasionally while living with Sherlock, but he had hardly entered “Uncle” territory. Things had certainly changed since he left.

“Yes,” he says slowly, the word tasting like ash on his tongue. “Regardless, he needed a flatmate and I had a flat. He wandered in and let me use his phone. I texted a murderer, deduced his whole life, and went about my business.”

She snorts, but she’s rapt. “And that was it?”

He shrugs. “He came to check out the place the next day and shot a man to save my life that night.”

Her face pales. _Bit not good._

“What?”

“Uh… yes, well.” He clears his throat and purses his lips. Lack of company has made his sense of tact relapse. “Your father has done many heroic things that cannot be talked about, but I assure you, they are acknowledged by the people involved.”

“He saved your life,” she clarifies.

“Many times,” he replies.

“After knowing you for only 24 hours, though.”

“He’s an army doctor,” Sherlock says. “What did you expect?” He stands up with a grunt (he can’t sit in one place for so long anymore) and goes into the hall closet, pulling out the walking stick that started it all.

“This was his.”

She wanders over and gently runs a finger down the metal. “How’d you get it?”

“He didn’t need it anymore.”

“Yes, but - ”

“He left it for me,” he clips, interrupting her. “In fact, it was the last thing he gave me before…”

“He disappeared?” she ventures and he shakes his head.

“I knew exactly where he was. He just made it clear he didn’t want to see me anymore. This,” he holds up the stick, “was goodbye.”

She remains silent, eyes boring into the cane with a look of sadness, before she glances up with fierce determination. “Why did he feel the need to say goodbye?”

“Rosie…” He puts the stick back in the closet and closes the door tightly.

“No, really. You were best friends. Inseparable. Even the damn papers saw it.”

“Please don’t,” he murmurs as he brushes by her towards the kitchen. Surely something needs to be stirred.

“Uncle Greg slips sometimes and mentions you,” she pushes, hot on his heels. “He recovers quickly, but Dad doesn’t.”

That makes Sherlock stop and he has to brace his arm against the doorframe of the kitchen to keep himself upright against the onslaught of _John_. Edison appears at his side and licks his hand.

“His mouth goes tight and his forehead creases....”

He can see it perfectly.

“His eyes go funny and his left hand twitches.” She places a hand on his shoulder. “I’ve been memorizing his tells.”

He can’t do this. “Rosamund Mary.” He shrugs her hand off and continues his way into the kitchen, grabbing the wooden spoon, and stirring the pot so viciously, bolognese splatters on the tiles behind the stove.

“That's not my name,” she murmurs with a frown when the pounding in his ears eventually subsides enough for him to hear.

“What?” Now it's his turn to be thrown off balance. He was definitely at the christening and paying attention, despite what everyone thinks.  

“My name is Rosamund Catherine,” she replies, chin jutting out in typical Watson defiance. “Aren’t godfathers supposed to know that kind of thing?”

It’s teasing though a little bit skeptical, and it takes Sherlock a minute to right himself, but when he does, his smile is wide. “Oh well done, John.”

Clearly not the answer she was expecting. “What do you mean?”

He places the spoon down in its holder once more, calm now that they’ve moved beyond the details of John’s emotions whenever Sherlock is brought into the conversation. “When you were born, your father wanted to name you Catherine. I assume that was his mother’s name but to be honest, I never deigned to ask. Your mother put her foot down and named you after herself.”

“Oh.” She quiets and stares at the flames dancing on the hob, toying with the necklace around her neck again. A nervous habit clearly. “When he told me he changed my middle name, I thought he had just added the other.”

She looks melancholy once more and he realizes that he perhaps shouldn’t have been the one to break that particular fact to her. That’s John’s job. Not his. “I’m sorry, I - ”

"It's fine." Her response is matter-of-fact and he remembers what she replied earlier in the day when he had said he had gotten her mother killed: _"We both know that's not true."_

"What do you know of your mother?" 

Her features darken. "Enough." 

He opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, she’s interrupting him.

“It was, you know.”

“What was?”

“My grandmother’s name. Catherine.”

 _Sentiment,_ the younger version of himself taunts, but he can’t scoff at it now. Not when he’s barely been repressing the urge to wrap his arms around the girl in front of him for the better part of eight hours.

But then he frowns. “You said he added another…”

Her eyes finally find his and he’s taken aback at the tears he sees there. “Rosamund Catherine Sherlock Watson,” she whispers.

And everything just - _stops_.

“I beg your pardon?” His voice is reedy. Thin. Terrified.

“That’s the whole of it.” She gives a little shrug, but it’s half-hearted, as if she knows the information she’s imparting is going to rock his already fragile world. “Dad must have figured that if he was already changing one middle name...”

“I’m sure dinner’s almost ready,” he rasps, reaching blindly behind him, unable to deal with anything that’s happening right now.

“It still has at least another hour,” she replies, placing a hand on his arm, but not before he burns himself on the hob.

He curses and she immediately grabs his wrist and leads him over to the sink, turning on the cold water and sticking his palm beneath it. It smarts, but it’s not bad all things considered. He’s had worse. Edison whines at his side and he reaches down with his uninjured hand and placates him as he stares at the girl - young woman - next to him, whose first instinct was to make the situation right. He can hear himself breathing over the faucet, watching blindly as she turns the water off and gently pats his palm dry with a paper towel.

There’s an aloe plant on the windowsill for just such an occasion, and she breaks a leaf off, oozing its contents onto the red and swollen skin.

“You must have a first aid kit around here somewhere.”

He doesn’t have the heart to tell her that her father was the one who bought it for 221B and it’s the only tangible part of John Watson, besides his walking stick, that he’s taken with him.

He points a shaking finger to the cabinet under the sink and she immediately pulls it out and unwraps some gauze. The wound really isn’t that bad - it’ll be tender tomorrow and fine the following day - but he allows her this. This caring. This healing.

“You were named after me?” He asks the obvious because he just can’t seem to wrap his mind around it. He knows what John’s letter said. He knows what John’s fists feel like. He’s seen the hate in his eyes.

She glances up at him briefly before focusing back on his hand and swallowing. “Yes.”

His throat is tight. “When?”

“Seven, I think.”

 _Seven._ Three years after Sherlock had moved to Sussex. Over six years after they had last seen each other.

“Do you see now why I had to find you?” she finally asks. “I don’t know what exactly happened between you and my father, but he still looks sad when he thinks about you. And I know he does. I’ve read the blog.”

“He doesn’t write about me anymore,” he says, shaking his head. “He doesn’t write about anything - ”

“He writes things he doesn’t post,” she retorts.

“Rosie - ”

“Do you love him?” she blurts and panic seizes his chest.

“Where would you get that idea?” He never should have let her in the damn door. “You're a romantic just like your father.”

“Perhaps.” She leans back and crosses her arms. “And you’re good at deflection.”

He moves away from her but she follows and he’s eventually cornered by the kitchen table with nowhere to go unless he flees out the back door into the yard.

She is undeterred. “I know the look he has because it’s the same one you’ve been wearing all day whenever you look at me. Sherlock, do you love him?”

“Yes, of course I do!” he yells. “Why do you think I moved out here to begin with? So I didn’t have to live in a city where John bloody Watson haunts me every single day.”

His outburst has stalled her offense, mouth open, eyes wide - but then her head tilts and her forehead creases in a way that is so sincerely _John_ he can’t take it anymore. He collapses into the nearby chair and buries his head in his hands, fingers raking through his silvering curls.

“You need to come home with me,” she murmurs after a moment.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“My father needs to see you.”

He scoffs. “Over my dead body.”

“He did that once already.”

“So our roles wouldn’t be reversed,” he snaps, raising his head. “So he could have you and you could be here to lecture me on the inner workings of my heart.”

_Oh, too much, too far._

“Please, Sherlock,” she begs, and he wonders briefly if John crumbles as quickly as he’s about to when she speaks to him like that. “Please. He just - he needs to see you.”

“You don’t know what you’re asking of me,” he replies, voice breaking.

“Yes I do,” she says, pulling out a crumpled up piece of paper from her back pocket. It’s a print out of something. A letter perhaps. A print out of a letter that begins “ _Dear Sherlock…_ ” He can read it through the paper. A tear tracks down her face as she kneels on the floor beside his chair.

“How long have you had this?” he whispers, gently taking the folded piece of paper and tracing the edges.

“I printed it out the day I found the private blog posts. This was saved in his drafts, dated nearly ten years ago.”

“Rosie.”

“Read it. Please.” She closes her eyes and more tears track down her face. “And then come home with me.”

His hands shake as he unfolds the paper and smooths it against his lap, trying to focus on the words that John Watson wrote:

**_Dear Sherlock,_ **

**_You’ll never read this, which is why it’s perhaps the only time I’ll ever be able to tell you the truth. The only time I’ll ever be able to attempt to make up for what I’ve done, though I know my pleas and admissions will fall on deaf ears._ **

**_I made a mistake. A terrible, terrible mistake._ **

Sherlock closes his eyes as his own tear splashes on his cheek. He keeps reading, though, because he promised he would. And by the time he finishes the letter, he’s stained the paper a hundred times over, like bullet holes in a concrete wall.

“All right,” he whispers, not even sure if Rosie is still in the room.

“You’ll come home?” her voice says next to him. Still on the floor. Still by his side. Still so like her father.

He swallows and smooths the paper once more, smearing some of the ink that had blurred from his tears.

“Yes. I’ll come home.”


	2. Let the More Loving One Be Me

The greenery whips past on the M23 and Sherlock’s grip on the wheel of the Rover is steadfast despite the fact that his navigator is busy taking videos of Edison sticking his head out of the car, recording his ears and tongue flapping in the wind.

The dog is having the time of his life. Sherlock, on the other hand, wants to curl up in a ball and die with every kilometer that brings them closer to London.

_“You don’t know what you’re asking of me.”_

_“Yes I do.”_

He’s not sure how long they stayed like that, he in the chair and Rosie on the floor. She eventually asked, “Can I...?” trailing off and gesturing with her arms. He couldn’t even get out a response, but she understood anyway, reaching up and wrapping her arms around his neck as he pulled her in tight to his chest, holding her the way he wished he’d been able to for her entire life.

They did eventually get to the bolognese and it was delicious. Rosie scarfed down seconds and even Sherlock had more than usual, basking in the joy of eating with company. He hadn’t felt that comfortable since Baker Street and the evening ended with the pair of them sprawled over the chair and couch respectively, nursing a food coma and succumbing to the emotional exhaustion of the day.

Now, he’s thrumming with more energy than he has outlets to channel it, tapping out an uneven rhythm with his thumbs on the wheel so hard, he accidentally honks the horn once.

“Easy, soldier,” Rosie laughs, flicking her sunglasses back on her face as she turns and leaves Edison alone for a moment.

“This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever done,” he mutters.

“And you jumped off a roof in front of the man you love,” she drawls as he offers her a glare.

“Watch it, Watson.”

She smiles at him and winks as she turns the radio up on an old Beatles song. And the only reason he knows it’s The Beatles is because it’s one of John’s favorites. And try as he might, he cannot delete John Watson.

Her socked feet tap out a rhythm where they’re perched on the dashboard and, though she’s in beat with the song, her shoulders are tense. Perhaps she’s more stressed about this meeting than originally thought.

“You didn’t eat much at breakfast,” she accuses.

“I don’t usually.”

“No appetite?”

“You sound just like your father, always trying to shove food down my throat.” He glances sideways to find her looking quite proud of that fact. “I thought you went by Rose these days. I’ve been calling you Rosie and you haven’t corrected me once.”

She shrugs. “To new people, I do. Only Dad still calls me Rosie. And Uncle Greg.”

“Ah.” He inhales and trains his eyes on the road. “Well, I may slip up now and then.”

She’s silent for a moment, making a show of posting Edison’s video on some site on her phone. “You can call me Rosie too. That’s… that would be okay.”

“I’m new people.” He holds his breath as she looks up.

“No you’re not.”

Her hair is blowing in the wind from the cracked window, resembling her look when she woke up that morning, eyes bleary and swollen, blindly stumbling around the kitchen until Sherlock carefully put a cup of coffee in her hand and made sure she had a grip on it before he let go.

Clearly she takes after her father when it comes to her sleep habits.

She pulls the flying tresses back into a low ponytail and wraps a band from her wrist around it. The radio changes from The Beatles to something slower, and it takes him a moment, but he groans as if in pain when it clicks. The universe is playing a terrible, terrible trick on him.

“What is it?” Rosie asks, somewhat alarmed.

“Nothing, it’s just - “

 **_“If you ever change your mind_ **  
**_About leaving, leaving me behind_ **  
**_Oh, oh, bring it to me_ **  
**_Bring your sweet lovin’_ **  
**_Bring it on home to me…”_ **

“Your father used to cook to this song,” he mutters.

“Oh right,” she replies. “Thought it sounded familiar.” Then she snorts. “Isn’t his name Cooke?”

“I wouldn’t know.” But he would. _Sam Cooke, Bring It On Home to Me, 1962._ Just one of the many useless facts still tucked away in the overstuffed Watson wing.

“He still does that,” she murmurs.

“What?”

“Sing off-key while cooking.”

“One of his more charming qualities.”

 **_“You know I'll always be your slave_ **  
**_'Till I'm buried, buried in my grave_ **  
**_Oh, honey bring it to me_ **  
**_Bring your sweet lovin’_ **  
**_Bring it on home to me…”_ **

“You are so smitten.”

“Shut up.”

“No,” she cheekily replies. He sees Mary in her then. The Mary he first met who smiled coyly and knowingly, lips tight as if trying to fight off a grin and failing miserably. This is different though. There’s no coldness beneath the veneer. No “liar” that signals him like a lighthouse on a beaten shore. Just Rosie, basking in her smugness at finally bringing Sherlock Holmes back to John Watson. Something her mother said she would do and never followed through on.

_“I’ll bring him ‘round.”_

Managed quite the opposite, in fact.

 **_“One more thing_ **  
**_I tried to treat you right_ **  
**_But you stayed out, stayed out at night_ **  
**_But I forgive you, bring it to me_ **  
**_Bring your sweet lovin’_ **  
**_Bring it on home to me”_ **

In a perfect piece of irony, London comes into view as the song winds down and Sherlock’s heartbeat kicks up to a gallup, as his clammy palms shift on the steering wheel. An upbeat song comes up next to mock his pain.

 **_“I may not always love you_ **  
**_But long as there are stars above you_ **  
**_You never need to doubt it_ **  
**_I’ll make you sure about it._ **  
**_God only knows what I’d be - “_ **

Rosie is quick to flick the radio off as she mutters, “That’s quite enough of that.”

Thank _God,_ Sherlock thinks. There’s only so much of his inner emotional monologue he can hear sung back at him on any given day.

The GPS brings them into the city proper. He hasn’t been back since his last visit with Mrs. Hudson two months ago when she made too many herbal brownies and they watched Doctor Who. That was the unfortunate day Sherlock learned he does a more than decent Dalek impression. And it kills another piece of his soul every time he remembers that he actually knows what a Dalek is.

He sees the Shard in the distance and allows himself a moment to breathe London in, as is his wont, feeling the familiar energy seep into his pores.

“Do you see Mrs. Hudson often?” he asks, but when she frowns in confusion, he curses himself. She may not even know who Mrs. Hudson _is_ , depending on how much of John’s former life he wanted to hide from her.

“Mrs…? You mean Nana?”

 _Na_ _na_?

“And going by the look of extreme alarm on your face,” she continues, “I'm going to go out on a limb and guess she never told you.”

He can only shake his head.

“Yeah. I mean, I know she’s not Dad’s real mum, but she’s the closest we’ve got.”

And suddenly it makes sense. Sherlock always asks if she has plans for the holidays because he doesn't want her to be alone, and she always replies that she’ll be with family, despite the fact that her sister died years ago. He never imagined...

“Oh that wily…”

Even _he_ suffered it out with Mycroft over many a Christmas goose and serving of bread pudding. The thought of Mrs. Hudson being with Rosie and John…

He presses his fingers against his chest over his scar.

“You all right?” Rosie asks and he nods. “Does it still hurt?”

And his head whips around so quickly, the car swerves a bit. “How do you know about that?”

“Nana let slip once that you were shot.” She leans down and pulls her trainers back on, doing up the laces and avoiding his gaze. “I thought she had had too much of her special tea and was confusing the jump off Barts with something else, but then I saw the look on my Dad’s face.” She straightens once more, looking stricken at the memory. “Nana wasn’t confusing anything."

“Do you know the circumstances?” His heart hammers against his ribcage.

“No,” she replies. “We never talked about it again.”

He exhales the breath he had been holding and loosens his grip on the wheel as they exit the city proper and move further into the suburbs. He’s beginning to recognize the streets and some of the houses. Edison begins whimpering, as if feeling his owner’s increasing distress.

Eventually, they pull up in front of the white stone house that's haunted too many of his dreams.

_“Anyone.”_

“You never moved.” His voice breaks and he clears his throat, but it does nothing to help the tightness of it.

“Dad said it was close to the best schools. He’s considering it, though. Says it’s too big for him now that I’ve gone off to uni.”

Silence settles thick and heavy in the car. Edison shuffles forward and noses at Sherlock’s elbow on the armrest. He reaches a distracted hand over to rub at his head.

“You ready for this?” she eventually asks, voice meek.

He scoffs, but it gets stuck in somewhere in his throat. “I wasn’t ready for this twenty years ago. Why should I be ready for it now?”

She flicks a wrist, but she looks sad. “Time and whatnot.”

“Hogwash.”

She snorts. “ _Hogwash_. Showing your age a bit there, Mr. Holmes,” she says, managing to get a smile from him.

“And what would you call it?”

“Bullshit,” she replies bluntly.

“Indeed. That works, too.”

“All right,” she says, sobering quickly and bracing her hands on her knees. “I’ll just…” she trails off and gestures towards the flat, looking just as petrified as Sherlock feels.

“We can back out, you know,” he murmurs. “You can get your bag, I’ll drive off, and your father will be none the wiser.”

Her voice is soft and her eyes sad when she says, “Oh, I think we’re a bit beyond that point, aren’t we?”

He thinks of the letter burning a hole in his pocket. The letter he had asked if he could keep the night before.

 _“It’s yours, isn’t it?”_ she had quietly replied and he kissed her fiercely on the forehead before he could think better of it.

“Yes, I think we are,” he says in answer to her question.

“I’ll go first,” she offers, rubbing her sweaty palms on her jeans. “Wouldn’t do to go giving him a heart attack before you even have a proper snog.”

“Rosamund!” he gasps, scandalized, but she only fixes him with a look of wide-eyed innocence.

“What?” And with that, she opens the door, waving to Edison who whines at her departure, and makes her way up the path.

He watches her pause for a moment; watches her shoulders rise and fall with the bracing inhale she no doubt takes before she reaches a hand up and knocks. A few seconds pass before the door swings back -

And there he is.

John Hamish Watson.

Still the same and yet not. His hair is completely shot-through with silver, but it’s the same style, combed to the side. The same compact, muscular frame. The same fondness for hideous jumpers. The same smile, same eyes (surrounded by a few more lines). Still the same look of initial worry he always got when there was someone at the door he wasn’t expecting.  

Sherlock gasps with the weight of it.

He pulls Rosie into a hug, his laughter ringing across the small yard. “Why on earth are you knocking, you silly girl? Did you forget your key again?”

Given the glare of the early afternoon sun off the window, he knows John probably can’t get a good look into the car. It allows him this moment of calm, of _God Almighty what are you doing?_ before he makes himself stop running. Because that’s what he’s been doing since he left, isn’t it? Running?

“I missed you,” she says.

“Likewise, sweetheart,” John replies, before his eyes catch sight of the Rover idling by the kerb. “Wait - that’s not Em’s car.”

And Sherlock knows that’s his cue. The time has come to mend his mistakes. To face the past and reconcile with the ghosts he tried to keep locked in it.

Placing trembling fingers on the handle, he gives it a tug, listening to the overly loud pop of the lock as the door swings back, allowing him to step onto the pavement and slowly straighten on numb legs to meet the only gaze that could level him without a word.

“Hello, John.”

But John doesn’t answer. His eyes have gone wide, his lips have parted, and his face has paled. For a moment, Sherlock wonders if he’ll actually remain upright because he’s also pretty sure the breath has stalled in his chest.

Somewhere, a horn honks, but that can’t be. Cars can’t be functioning, traffic lights can’t be turning, because surely time has stopped. It’s not rational for the clock to keep ticking when John Watson is looking at him like he’s both heaven and hell.

“Sher - ” he manages, barely a whisper.

“Daddy, before you say anything - ”

But John, of course, doesn’t listen. “Rosie,” his voice shakes, “how do you know who this is?”

“Because I’m your daughter,” is her simple reply and John finally blinks, tearing his eyes away from where they pin Sherlock to the side of the car, and stares at her.

“Oh Jesus,” he breathes, bending over and placing his hands on his knees. Sherlock takes a step forward, but stops, unsure if he’s even wanted now, despite what the letter said.

“Dad?” Rosie’s voice is laced with panic - after all, John is the only parent she has and perhaps her joke about giving him a heart attack wasn’t too far off the mark - but John stands and inhales, nodding and managing a tight smile for her sake. “I’m sorry, Dad. I didn’t mean - ”

But he cuts her off with a squeeze to her arm as he takes a step forward, then another. Sherlock doesn’t even notice he’s meeting him halfway until they’re standing just a meter apart.

“Why…” John’s gaze darts all over, cataloguing the differences, lingering on the hair that’s changed and the eyes that have stayed the same. “How are you here?”

Sherlock swallows and pulls the piece of paper out of his pocket, unfolding the letter. “Because you asked me to come.”

“Where…” John licks his lips and begins again. “Where did you get this?”

Sherlock glances over at Rosie, who bites her lip and stares at the ground. “And on that note, might I suggest we move this inside.”

“Rosie - ” John begins, but she grabs his arm, cutting him off.

“Daddy, _please_. Yes, I gave it to him. And I will explain all of that to you when we go in _side._ ”

Sherlock feels the desperate urge to do something, to wipe the confusion and heartbreak off of John’s face, to ease the guilt in Rosie’s gut. To grab John by the shoulders, crush him to his chest, and never, ever let him go.

“I should walk Edison. It’s been a long drive,” he murmurs instead, but Rosie is already halfway to the car.

“I’ll do it.”

“Edison?” John asks, a frown on his face, but then Rosie opens the back door to the Rover and the border collie bounds out, stretching on the pavement and waiting patiently for Rosie to fish his leash out from the backseat.

Sherlock sighs, putting on a good show of not letting on just how terrified he is of being left alone with John. “Rosie - ”

“Sherlock, I’ll do it,” she replies with that fierce Watson determination.

The dog is warring between staring at his distressed human and wanting to explore this new environment. Eventually, the environment wins out ( _the traitor_ ) as a breeze kicks up some leaves and fallen petals from the neighbor’s garden, sending Edison to scurry after them, biting at the wind.

“Calm down, you menace,” Sherlock murmurs when the collie gets close enough for him to touch. He takes the leash from Rosie and hooks it onto his collar, standing up with a wince and handing the loop back to her. Edison trots forward as far as he’s able, stopping about a foot from where John stands, cocking his head and studying the man.

“Hi there,” John whispers, holding his palm out and allowing Edison to nose at it. The dog must deem him worthy, though, since he proceeds to lick each of his fingers. John doesn’t seem to mind. “He’s beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

Rosie silently steps forward and gives Edison a gentle tug. “We’ll be back.”

Sherlock would laugh at the way John’s eyes widen, at the way they say _You’re leaving us_ **_alone_** _?_ but he’s empathizing a bit too much, so he doesn’t.

“Right,” John murmurs, glancing quickly between Sherlock and Rosie’s retreating form, as if he can force her back through sheer will alone. “Tea?”

And it’s such a _John_ thing to say, that Sherlock can’t help but laugh. “Please.”

John leads the way inside and Sherlock is hit with such a sense of deja vu, with a wall of memories and moments long-buried, that he has to brace himself against the doorframe to keep from falling over.

“You okay?” John asks from the kitchen, observing him out of the corner of his eye as he fills the kettle. _Ever the soldier._

Sherlock clears his throat and nods. “Didn’t eat much this morning.” It’s not a lie, but also not quite the reason he hasn’t let go of the frame yet.

John nods and pulls out a box of biscuits - the kind he used to tolerate for Sherlock’s sake because they were his favorite. Perhaps Rosie has developed a taste for them, too. Sherlock selfishly wonders if John thinks of him every time he buys them at the shops. He sets them on the tray next to the cups, but leaves them unopened, as he if knows they won’t actually be doing much eating.

As John pours the water, Sherlock takes a moment to finally have a glance around. The god-awful plaid sofa has been replaced by a comfortable-looking navy piece, which offsets the beige/pale yellow walls nicely. The bookshelves behind the glass doors have gained some new additions: school staples like _Pride and Prejudice_ and _Hamlet_ lined up alongside the medical journals and old textbooks. The entire _Harry Potter_ series cozies up to John’s beloved _The Lord of the Rings,_ and there even seems to be a few childhood books scattered throughout. Some favorites that sentiment prevented from donation.

“You look different.”

The voice startles him and he turns to find that John has already placed the tray on the coffee table and is standing much closer than anticipated.

“Twenty years will do that to a man.”

John quirks a smile and stuffs his hands in his pockets. “I meant in a jumper.”

Sherlock snorts again, rather undignified. “Bespoke suits aren’t conducive to country living.” He doesn’t tell John he spent an hour with his daughter that morning trying to find the perfect outfit. After much bickering, they settled on dark, slim jeans (“You actually own a pair?”), a pale blue cashmere jumper (“To bring out your eyes.”) over a navy and white checked button down, and tan Oxfords.

“Country living,” John whispers, as if reminding himself what Sherlock has been up to these last two decades. But then his face crumples, causing Sherlock’s heart to constrict, as he tries to keep the emotion from overwhelming him. “Sorry, sorry…” he trails off and steps forward, close enough that Sherlock can see the unshed tears in his eyes. “I just…” He presses a palm to Sherlock’s chest, feeling the beat of his heart beneath his shirt. “You’re real.”

“Very,” Sherlock replies, barely audible, because anything louder might shatter the illusion he’s built for himself. But it’s not an illusion. Not this time. John’s palm is warm and solid on top of two layers of clothing, searing him, branding him, tracing his fingerprints on his skin for all the rest of Sherlock’s days.

He lifts his arms up and places them carefully on John’s shoulders, thumbs rubbing in circles he can’t stop. “May I?”

“God yes,” John replies and then they’re crashing into each other, John’s face pressing into his shoulder as they hug each other tightly.

Sherlock closes his eyes and inhales, basking in the scent he had tried so hard to forget: soap, aftershave, tea, and _John_. They’ve never done this before - hugged. Being British and male and emotionally constipated, outward expressions of sentiment are few and far between. But Sherlock revels in it, digging his fingers into John’s oatmeal jumper, afraid that if he eases up on the pressure even a tad, the man will disappear beneath his fingertips.

“Jesus, sorry,” John says as he wipes a hand across his face and pulls away, making Sherlock feel instantly bereft.

He clears his throat. “Don’t be. It was… good.”

_“That uh, that thing that you did… that you offered to do… that was, uh… good.”_

John smiles then, a soft, secret thing, and nods. “Tea.”

Yes, tea. Tea fixes everything. Even twenty-year-old fractures in a relationship that Sherlock, at one time, believed nothing could put asunder.  

“Why did you stay here?” he blurts as he sits on the sofa.

John tenses as he pours, but manages not to miss the cup. “Believe it or not, I had fewer ghosts in this house than in 221B.”

“Oh.”

Sherlock thinks of the letter sitting like a weight in the pocket of his trousers - of John’s face when he realized he had read it. How did they get here?

“Where shall we begin?” he asks slowly as John takes a seat in the chair.

“I would say from the beginning, but if we start without Rosie, she may murder us in our beds.”  

And Sherlock feels such sharp fondness for the girl, he can’t help but let it shine through his eyes. “She’s incredible, John. Absolutely brilliant.”

John’s head snaps up and he can’t help but smile proudly. “She is. I’m afraid I can only take partial credit for that. She’s very much her own woman.”

“Thanks to you.”

John’s ears go pink. “Clearly, she’s been doing some sleuthing behind my back.” He chuckles ruefully. “Tell her enough stories about a great detective and it’s bound to have an impact.”

Sherlock blushes. “Thank you for that, by the way.”  

John nods, but his eyes are sad. “It was the least painful way to keep your memory around, if I’m honest.” But then he freezes as a thought occurs. “She hasn’t been with you this whole week, has she?”

Sherlock barks out a laugh, which eases the sting of the previous comment. “No. She found me yesterday.”

“She found you.”

“Indeed.”

And Rosie picks that moment to open the front door, allowing Edison off the leash so he can inspect the new smells. “Oh good, you’re both still alive,” she drawls.

“You,” John says, pointing to the empty space on the sofa next to Sherlock. “Sit.”  

Edison immediately drops to the ground, causing Sherlock to muffle a laugh as Rosie dutifully takes her place at his side with a muttered, “Oh boy.”

“He’s a very considerate house guest,” Sherlock offers as Edison realizes no one was speaking to him, comes over, and rests his head in John’s lap. John scratches behind his ears, even as he glares at his daughter. “You can ask Mrs. Hudson for references.”

“Wait, Mrs. Hudson?” John blurts. “You’ve been seeing Mrs. Hudson?”

“Right?” Rosie chips in. “Nana has some explaining to do.”

“As do you, young lady.”

She sheepishly drops her chin to her chest and folds her hands in her lap. Sherlock wants to put a supportive arm around her shoulder, but it’s not his place. This is her part of the story. His time will come.

“We were on our way back yesterday and we stopped in a town to get snacks. I honestly couldn’t even tell you the name of it. I bent down to pet a dog in the store and when I looked up, there was Sherlock. He went by ‘William,’ but like you said, Dad, those eyes are something.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “Did you, John?”

“Not important,” he mutters, turning back to Rosie. “That still doesn’t explain how you knew who he was to begin with.”

She frowns. “You told me.”

“Yes, and I told you he _died_ when you asked.”

Sherlock can’t help but flinch. John winces in apology but keeps his eyes trained on his daughter.

“Dad, you kept whispering, ‘Sherlock’ in the corner with Uncle Greg and Nana like it was a bad word. Eventually, I googled.”

John shakes his head. “Is it really that easy?”

She fixes him with a look. “How many Sherlocks do _you_ know?”

He fixes the look right back. “Point.”

“How old were you?” Sherlock aims the question to Rosie, but John answers.

“Five. She said, ‘Daddy, what’s a Sherlock?’ I choked on my tea.”

Rosie smiles sheepishly. “I didn’t google until later, when I had a school project that needed family background. I found the blog then and it seemed to prove what you said.”

“She said you deleted the more recent blog posts,” Sherlock murmurs and John nods.

“The last one reads, ‘He was my best friend and I’ll always believe in him.”

“I remember.” Sherlock can’t look at either of them, so he keeps his gaze fixed on the rug and attempts to breathe around the lump in his throat. He recalls reading that for the first time. He was in Germany and was late to a drop because he couldn’t stop sobbing on the floor of his dingy hotel.

“I stayed curious,” Rosie continues, “but it wasn’t until I got to uni and met Em, who spent her childhood hearing stories about Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson from her older brother, that I googled again. See, her brother told her about Mr. Holmes’ miraculous resurrection.” Her tone is a tad bitter and this time it’s John’s turn to stare at the ground. “I said, ‘That’s not true. He committed suicide.’ Em was only too happy to prove me wrong.”

“Rosie…”

“You were always good at protecting me, Dad. Maybe a little too good.”

John opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out.

“Anyway, I saw a photo of the two of you at a press conference in 2015 and I went digging.”

“Digging where?” His tone indicates he knows _exactly_ where she went digging.

Her cheeks flush crimson. “You really need to get more creative with your passwords, Dad.”

He glares first at Rosie and then at Sherlock. “I thought my days of worrying about hackers were over.” It’s teasing, but loaded.

“I found the backend of your blog. The drafts… The private posts.”

John pales then. “Rosie - ”

“I know, Dad. It was a horrible breach of trust, but I had to know."

“Stuff on there was private.”

She glances at Sherlock’s face first and then to his pocket, where the letter sits. “I know.”

John follows her gaze. “And you just… happened to have the letter with you when you ran into him.”

“Look at how worn it is,” she says. “I’ve carried it with me everywhere since I found it.”

“Rosie…” John shakes his head. “Why?”

“Because it’s a part of you, a history,” her voice wobbles and she swallows, “that you won’t talk about.”  

“Because I don’t like to,” he says softly.

She glances at Sherlock quickly before turning back to her father and wiping at eyes she inherited from him. “But I think it’s your turn to.”

John sighs in resignation and shares a searching look with Sherlock, which has him holding his breath. “Rosie, I think it’s time you learn about your mother.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen. “John, you don’t have to - ”

“Yes, I do,” he says fiercely. “It’s overdue.” He runs his hand through his hair before grasping the back of his neck and sighing again. “Rosie, I met your mum while Sherlock was…”

“Dead,” Rosie offers as John says, “Away.”

“Away,’ let’s go with,” Sherlock tries as John pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Yes, away.” John nods. “To be honest, I’m not sure I would have gotten so emotionally attached to her had I not been…”

“Grieving?” Rosie asks, voice small.

“Yes.” John cocks his head as if asking for forgiveness, though none is needed. “She was a nurse at the surgery I worked at. We dated for six months and then I decided to propose.”

“After only six months?” Rosie blurts and Sherlock chokes on a laugh. John glares at both of them.

“Yes, well…” John clears his throat and shifts in his chair. “Didn’t get around to it right then as someone decided to interrupt.”

Sherlock can’t feel guilty about that. Not that John’s expecting him to. The look of mirth in his eyes alone proves it, but it’s tinted with something darker. The memory of french waiters is overshadowed by the feeling of John’s fists in his collar and the floor at his back. John is looking at him in apology, but Sherlock bats it away with a subtle flick of his hand. So much has happened since then. So, so much.

“But you got married anyway,” Rosie says, almost accusingly, bringing them back to the moment at hand.

“Yes. And found out about you at the reception.” John scoots forward to the end of the seat and stares intently at his daughter. “I know you have preconceptions about your mother. I know you’ve overheard things and formed your own opinions. What you have to know…” he stares at her, “is that I did love her, Rosie. When I thought I knew who she was, I loved her very much.” His expression darkens then, and Rosie shifts on the sofa. John then turns that piercing look on Sherlock. “She knows her mother is not who she said she was. She knows she did some bad things. She doesn’t know what exactly those things were.”

“They caught up with her and got her killed,” Rosie murmurs. “She endangered me and Dad and those Dad was closest to.”

John nods. “She was a freelance...” but he trails off, swallowing thickly.

“Agent,” Sherlock supplies.

“Assassin,” John says and there it is. Out in the open.

He chances a glance to Rosie, who sits there looking thunderstruck. “What?”

John clears his throat and clasps his hands in front of him, knuckles turning white. “She was a freelance agent. And an assassin. She died jumping in front of a bullet to save Sherlock.”

“But why would she…?” She trails off and shakes her head. “Uncle Greg told me once that she nearly killed someone you loved, Dad. I thought he meant accidentally, but…” She looks at Sherlock before her gaze drops to his chest. To the scar she now knows is just to the right of his heart. “Oh God…”

“Rosie…” he moves toward her, but she backs away until she’s on the end of the sofa.

“Oh my God…” She stands and trips over the coffee table, but John is quick to brace her in his arms. “Dad, please tell this isn’t what I think it is. Please tell me my mother didn’t shoot Sherlock. Please.”

But John can’t tell her that, so he remains silent, his eyes saying everything he can’t as he cups her cheek in his hand. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”

“Oh God,” she bursts into tears and grips his jumper in her fingers. He guides her head to his chest and holds her as she sobs into his shirt.

Sherlock leans his elbows on his knees and presses his forehead against his clasped hands. He never wanted to hurt Rosie, but it seems that John and Mary Watson’s daughter was always going to be collateral damage when atoning for the many sins all three of them committed.

John continues to rock her back and forth, his own tears slowly making their way down his face. He locks eyes with Sherlock and they stay like that, a million things passing between them, words unable to do them justice.  

Rosie eventually pulls away and turns toward the sofa. Sherlock sits up straighter and grips his knees, attempting to brace for anything. But when Rosie strides over, says, “Oh God, Sherlock, I’m so sorry,” and crashes her face into his chest, he can only stare at John over his daughter’s head, a little lost. He brings his hand up and runs it in small circles across her back, feeling every shuddering breath she takes. Her tears stain the jumper over the scar her mother gave him.

“Don’t you dare apologize,” he says after he comes back to himself, pressing a kiss into her hair. “Don’t you dare.”

She pulls away and wipes a hasty hand across her face. “Is that - is that why you went away?”  

Sherlock’s eyes flick to John’s and he stares back, pained. “No.”

She looks confused, gaze darting from one man to the other. “But then… why didn’t you stay? After everything you’d been through… wouldn’t you stay?”

Sherlock continues to stare at John who finally breaks and focuses on the floor. “We had a disagreement,” he says simply.

“Don’t sugarcoat it, Sherlock,” he whispers. “She’s clearly proven she’ll track the truth down regardless.”

Rosie’s head whips over to her father and she tenses where she sits next to Sherlock, as if she knows she’s about to learn something she’s not going to like about the man whom she’s grown up revering. “Wait… When did she shoot you?”

Sherlock swallows and looks to John, who stares at his daughter like the convicted staring down the noose. “When she was pregnant with you.”

Rosie exhales like she’s taken a swift kick to the middle. “But you didn’t… she didn’t die until I was four months old. She shot Sherlock and then stayed around for a year?” Her tone is incredulous and both men wince.  

John looks to the ground and swallows, giving a careful nod. “I moved back into 221B to help Sherlock recover initially, but that Christmas, I went back to her.”

Rosie gapes, expression full of betrayal. “How could you?”

“For _you_ ,” John says fiercely, as if pleading with her to understand. “I honestly didn’t know what she’d do and I couldn’t risk her disappearing and taking you with her. We weren’t happy, but we made it work for you.” He inhales shakily. “And when she died…” John shakes his head, “I blamed him.”

Sherlock knows what he’s doing. He’s explaining things to Rosie but also asking for penance in return. It’s the first time they’ve talked about this. Laid it all out in the open. John’s tears have yet to dry on his cheeks and Sherlock knows there will be more to come. They’re all feeling a bit raw.

“I beat him.” John’s lower lip wobbles and he digs his teeth into it just so he can continue.

“In your father’s defense,” Sherlock murmurs, voice hoarse from disuse, “I was high as a paper kite and about to injure a civilian. He prevented me from doing so.”

But John continues to shake his head. “I took it too far. I was a soldier. I did and saw horrible acts - but nothing as terrible as when I laid my fists on him.”

“But you blamed him?” Rosie blurts, anger beginning to color her voice. “My assassin mother shot him, nearly _killed_ him, and when she jumped in front of a bullet meant for him, you put her death on him? He did nothing! Nothing but _love_ you!”

“I know that!” John roars on the edge of a sob. “God, Rosie. I know that! And I’ve spent every day of the last nineteen years wishing I could have been a better man. Because Sherlock Holmes deserved at _least_ that much.”

Rosie’s up and across the room before either John or Sherlock can make a move for her. She bolts up the stairs and a door slams a moment later, causing Edison to bark.

John continues to stand in the middle of the room, his muted sniffles the only sound breaking the quiet.

“I’ll go,” Sherlock murmurs, but John gets a light hold on his arm before he can pass.

“No, just. Leave it.”

“John,” Sherlock clips, determined. “She needs to understand you are not the villain here.”

He scoffs. “Am I not?”

“Don’t.”

John swallows, but eventually nods, keeping his gaze on the floor, unable to look at Sherlock as he climbs the stairs to the second floor.

He expects to find her crying on the bed, but she’s pacing the length of the room like a caged jungle cat.

“Rosie.”

“No,” she snaps, pointing a finger at him. “You don’t get to come up here and try to talk me out of my anger.”

“By all means, have your anger,” he replies. “You’ve earned it.”

And with those words, the fight almost seems to seep out of her. “But haven’t you too?”

Sherlock sighs and sits on the edge of the bed, patting the spot beside him. After a moment, she comes over, but keeps some distance between them.

“Your father dealt with more hardship over the course of five years than any one person should face in a lifetime. And I was the cause of most of it. I killed myself in front of him. I resurrected myself in front of him. I was shot in front of him and nearly died again in front of him. The mother of his child bled out in front of him. And this is a man who survived war. He merely traded one battle for another.” He glances down at his knuckles, remembering phantom bruises. “None of us is innocent, Rosie. I’ve done terrible things in your father’s name. What you have to understand is that he fights fiercely because he loves fiercely. He’s made mistakes because we’re only human. I did everything I did because I loved him. He did everything he did because he loved you.”

She hiccups and hastily wipes at her face, as if angry at showing any sort of weakness. “But he loves you too.”

“Perhaps,” Sherlock hesitantly offers. Despite the letter, even he’s not sure where he stands in John’s life. “But I’m not entirely sure he had that figured out at the time. We’re rather slow, you see, when it comes to matters of the heart.”

“It’s not fair,” she mutters, scooting closer so they sit hip to knee. “And don’t tell me any of that ‘life’s not fair’ crap.”

“Oh, like I go in for that sort of bollocks.”

She laughs through her tears. “You’re both idiots,” she wobbles and he pulls her into his chest.

“Yes, well, that was never in doubt.”

She sighs and rests her head on his shoulder. “Do you still love my Dad?”

His chest clenches. “More than anything.”

She pulls away and straightens his collar, smoothing her hands down his chest to unwrinkle his jumper.

“Then go get ‘im, Tiger.”

He chuckles and stands, stopping by the door with a hand on the frame, expression serious. “Are you all right?”

She nods and offers him a small smile. “Not totally, but I will be. And please tell the madman downstairs that I still love him dearly.”

“You can tell him yourself.”

“And I will, but I think it’s your turn first,” she says with a wink.

He rolls his eyes and disappears into the hall, bracing himself for a moment before descending the stairs. He returns to find John in his chair with his head in his hands and Edison resting his snout on John’s thigh in a show of solidarity, a steadying presence as always.

“Is she okay?” he asks without raising his head.

“She’s your daughter,” he says as he comes to a stop in front of him. “Of course she is.”

John looks up then, eyes drifting carefully over Sherlock’s body and making him shift under the scrutiny.

“What?”

John shakes his head. “Nothing. I just still can’t believe you’re here.”

Their tea has long since gone cold and the late afternoon/early evening sun is dipping low behind the houses across the street.

“I… apologize if I overstepped. She asked me to come and, frankly, I was her only ride home - ”

“No. God no,” John says as he stands. “You’re not overstepping. At all.”

Sherlock swallows and nods and a heavy silence descends. The information that he doesn’t have is clawing at him and he needs to know. Despite what Rosie says and, despite the fact that the next few minutes might jeopardize everything he holds most dear, he just… needs to know. “John, did you mean what you said?”

John swallows. “In my letter?”

“In your letter.” He pulls it out of his pocket and holds it up, thankful that his hands don’t shake. “You can have it back. I know it was addressed to me but it was not given willingly.”

John cocks his head and stares at him. “I don’t need it. I’ve memorized it.”

“You have?”

He shrugs. “You reread something enough, it just sticks.”

“Remind me, then,” Sherlock whispers, taking a step closer.

John licks his lips. “What?”

“The letter was for me,” Sherlock murmurs. “Tell me what it says.” He sits in John’s vacated chair and pets the top of Edison’s head where he sits at his side.

John licks his lips again and takes a seat across from him on the coffee table, staring into Sherlock’s eyes for a moment before his gaze drops to his lap. Sherlock isn’t sure if he’ll actually do it, but then again, John Watson is nothing if not surprising.

“Dear Sherlock,” he begins, pausing long enough to take a steadying breath. “You’ll never read this, which is why it’s perhaps the only time I’ll ever be able to tell you the truth.” He swallows and clears his throat. “The only time I’ll ever be able to attempt to make up for what I’ve done, though I know my pleas and admissions will fall on deaf ears. I made a mistake. A terrible, terrible mistake.” John’s fingers dig into his trousers. “I could apologize every day for the rest of my life and it still wouldn’t be enough. It still wouldn’t make up for the hurt I’ve caused you. I miss you.” His voice catches this time and Sherlock reaches out to place a steadying hand on top of John’s, whose head snaps up to stare at him.

Sherlock nods, as if to just to let him know that he’s there. That John is not alone.

“I know I don’t deserve to miss you. I know I don’t deserve to want you to come home, since I’m the one who drove you off, but wherever you are, I hope you’re happy. Because… because…” He trails off and his mouth works, but nothing comes out.

“I’m in love with you,” Sherlock whispers.

“What?” John gapes.

“That’s what the letter says next,” Sherlock quietly replies. “I’m in love with you.”

John swallows and nods. “Because I’m in love with you,” he breathes, voice breaking. “Have been from the start.” He smiles and chuckles a bit, even as tears stream down his cheeks. “I hope I get to tell you this before it’s too late. I’m not holding out much hope, but miracles do happen. You’re my living proof. Forgive me. Love always, Your John.”

“My John,” Sherlock breathes, sliding off the chair onto the hard floor beneath, the rug doing little to brace the impact as he grabs the backs of John’s calves. “Why didn’t you call? Text? Anything?”

John shakes his head and more tears fall. “I didn’t deserve to even ask for your forgiveness, let alone expect it.”

“And if I wanted to grant it?”

John smiles. “I wouldn’t have earned it.”

“So, what? You’ve been punishing yourself?”

The smile turns sad. “I believe you’re familiar with the concept.”

Sherlock thinks of needles and cocaine and obsession. Of six weeks without John and the hell he could not escape from. Of nearly twenty-years on his own and how the sharp ache of missing him evolved into a dull constant with an occasional relapse, like a trick joint when the weather turns. Yes, he knows about punishment. About self-flagellation. But had John only said the word, Sherlock would have happily saved him from himself.

He sits up on his aching knees and rests his forehead against John’s. “Whether or not you’ve earned it is for me to decide, isn’t it?”

“I suppose,” John breathes, licking his lips, looking nothing short of terrified. “What’s the verdict then?” His hands grip Sherlock’s wrists which come up to cup his face.

“I love you too,” he simply replies and John starts giggling so hard he starts crying all over again.

“You do?”

“Of course I do, you idiot.”

“Oh God, I’ve missed you,” he breathes, leaning in as Sherlock’s heart absolutely hammers against his chest. But before their lips can make contact, Rosie’s voice comes ringing down from upstairs.

“Can I come down, yet? I’m starving!”

John groans as Sherlock chuckles. “Like father, like daughter,” he says, pressing a chaste kiss on John’s cheek instead as he pulls him up with a grunt.

“Yes,” John calls back, glaring daggers at the staircase when Rosie emerges with a look of total innocence.

“We good?” she asks, crossing her arms and eyeing the relatively diminutive distance between them.

“Are we?” John turns to Sherlock, who glances at Rosie with a cheeky grin.

“I believe we are.”

Her resulting smugness earns an eye roll from John who rubs a hand over his face and massages the back of his stiff neck. Sherlock desperately wants to take care of that for him, but one step at a time.

Father and daughter stare at each other for a moment, before John silently opens his arms and Rosie falls into them, wrapping her arms around his back as he rests his cheek on top of her head.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”

“Me, too, Daddy.” She blindly reaches an arm out behind John’s back and takes Sherlock’s hand. He squeezes back firmly.

“Since we’re taking a trip down memory lane today, how’s Angelo’s?” John asks as he lets go and Rosie claps her hands together. Clearly she’s been there before. Sherlock nods, delighting for once in the sentiment. A new beginning at the old beginning, as it were.

They clean up, wash faces, and take a cab as parking will be terrible on a weekend and they’ve all earned a healthy portion of wine after the events of the day. Sherlock would like to enjoy it without having to navigate London’s roads with a buzz on. Regardless, the traffic they endure is worth it, if only for Angelo’s greeting when they arrive:

“Sherlock Holmes!” he booms. “As I live and breathe!”

Rosie’s eyebrows rise as she watches Angelo pick Sherlock up off the ground, a feat they’re both too old for yet the proprietor manages to pull it off. They’re put at their usual table in the window and Rosie slides around, leaving Sherlock to get in after her, and John sit on the end. The effect has Sherlock and John’s knees knocking together, not that either minds in the slightest.

“Is this why you always brought us here for every birthday?” Rosie asks, staring at John as his ears go pink.

“Possibly,” he replies as Sherlock makes a show of rolling his eyes, but he’s quite touched.

“This was where we had our first meal.”

“Are you serious?” she blurts. “The night you shot the cabbie?”

John’s eyes go wide and Sherlock nudges Rosie’s knee under the table. “You aren’t meant to know about that,” John says with a raised eyebrow as both Sherlock and Rosie flush. “I’m not sure how I feel about you two bonding over my past illegal activities."

Sherlock is saved from explaining himself as Angelo comes over with a familiar accessory.

“A candle for the table,” he gushes, glancing between Sherlock and John. “So good to see the two of you back together. And with the family.” He nods to Rosie and she beams.

“I agree,” she states with a nod, taking a healthy gulp of the chianti he's poured as John and Sherlock take turns trying not to catch each other’s eye. Rosie, at least, as the good sense to wait until Angelo is out of earshot before she says, “So. Have you gotten your heads out of your arses?”

“Rosie,” John chastises.

“What?”

“In her defense, it is a legitimate question,” Sherlock chimes in. “We are rather moronic.”

Forty-eight hours ago, he was tucking into a casserole on his own with Edison at his feet and a table set for one.

“Oh,” Rosie begins as she tears into a piece of garlic bread on the table and dunks it lavishly in olive oil. “Sherlock, I should have asked: are you seeing anyone?”

John chokes on his wine and Sherlock reaches over to thump him on the back with only a raised eyebrow.

“Um, not anymore.”

Rosie doesn’t look satisfied with this answer. Neither, in fact, does John.

“But you were?” Rosie prods and Sherlock buries his nose in his wine glass.

“I was.”

“For how long?”

“Rosie, that’s hardly appropriate,” John says, but he too looks intrigued. And slightly homicidal.

“A couple of months,” Sherlock replies.

“Why didn’t it work out?” Just as tenacious as her father, Sherlock thinks.

“Rosamund, I’ve had the pleasure of dating a few people over the years since I moved. And all of them had the same problem.”

“And that was?”

Sherlock sighs and resolutely does not look to the man at his right. “All of them had the great misfortune of not being John Watson.”

Rosie ducks her head and smiles into her glass of wine as John’s hand finds his on the bench and squeezes. Sherlock finally glances up then, pinned against the back of his seat by a look that conveys a thousand things: _I’m sorry. Forgive me. I need you. I love you. I’m so glad you’re here._ Sherlock gives a small nod in return, hopefully allaying every fear John has.

Rosie gets the gnocchi, but continually spears bites of Sherlock’s risotto and John’s ravioli in turn.

“Oi,” John finally complains when she heads for the last one. “Get your own, you heathen.”

Angelo brings them tiramisu and creme brulee, despite the fact that they were stuffed ages ago. They make a good show of it, though, getting through half of the creme brulee and all of the tiramisu before Sherlock waves his white flag, the buttons on his shirt threatening to pop open.

He’s feeling pleasantly warm in the cab ride home, no doubt a result of the wine and the company. He faces John and is watching with delight as Rosie’s head slowly drops onto her father’s shoulder, her features going slack in exhaustion.

“She’s always been a cheap date.” John winks at Sherlock as Rosie frowns.

“Liar,” she murmurs without opening her eyes. “Can drink you under the table.”

“These days, perhaps,” John chuckles, slotting his foot next to Sherlock’s on the floor of the cab and pressing gently as if to say _I’m here._

Like Sherlock could ever forget.

“Up you go,” John grunts as they pull up to the house, helping Rosie from the cab with gentleness but little grace. She trips down the steps and Sherlock gets a hold of her as John leans in the window and pays.

“Puttin’ it on a little thick there,” he whispers and she smiles, still sleepy, but not nearly as intoxicated as she’s making her father believe.

“I’m going to bed,” she calls over her shoulder to John before whispering, “Don’t keep him up _too_ late,” to Sherlock, voice laden with innuendo.

“Rosamund,” he snaps, eyes wide, but she merely offers a sleepy wave when John says, “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

When they get inside, Sherlock crouches down and cups Edison’s cheeks, letting the collie get a lick or two in on his chin. “Did you behave?” he asks, but the dog abandons him to nose at John, who bends down with a wide smile to give him a good rub. Sherlock watches with warmth in his chest - for the longest time, Edison was his only company and to see John interact with him with such… love makes Sherlock’s breath hitch.

John straightens and they stare at each other for a moment, two grown men shuffling back and forth like kids at a school dance. Neither had talked about Sherlock not driving back to the country tonight, but it was late and he’d had a decent amount of wine at dinner. The implication seems to be clear.

Sure enough, John holds his hand out for Sherlock to take and, when he does, he tugs him closer. “Stay with me,” he breathes.  

“John.”

“Please. I’m - “ he swallows, “I’m honestly not sure I’d be able to let you out of my sight anyway. Save an old man from himself.”

“You’re hardly old.”

John slides their fingers together, circling his thumb in the hollow of Sherlock’s palm. “Humor me, then.”

Sherlock steps further into his space and traces his nose along his cheek to his ear. John shivers. “Always.”

“Sherlock,” he whispers and then John’s lips are on him, powering down his hard drive, short circuiting his Mind Palace, whiting out his brain.

He’s spent years, _decades_ imagining what this would be like, but it’s so. much. more. It’s a proven hypothesis, a level ten locked room murder, a perfect batch of honey. But it’s even better because it’s _John._

“Upstairs,” John manages as he pulls away, lips swollen, pupils dilated, voice hoarse.

Sherlock’s answering chuckle is a low rumble and he takes great delight in watching John’s arse as the man reluctantly lets go and bends over to turn off the lamps they left on.

Catching him at this, John barks, “Now,” and Sherlock is only too quick to comply.

They make it to the bedroom, thankfully, tripping through the doorway as John crowds Sherlock up against the wall. Sherlock nips at John’s jaw and John’s hands are warm on his hips before he presses his palms to the wall on either side of Sherlock's head, caging him in.

“Wait - wait... “ John inhales raggedly. “Should we - Don’t you want to take things slow?” he breathes, already slotting a thigh between Sherlock’s legs.

Sherlock grabs his hips and pulls him flush against him with a groan. “Sod that.”

John’s jaw drops and he nearly whines at the friction, rolling against Sherlock’s answering hardness.

“We missed out on so much already,” Sherlock says more solemnly, whispering into his ear. “I don’t want to waste another minute.”

John pulls back, visibly swallows, and nods, cupping Sherlock’s cheek and tracing his thumb over his lips.

“And that means getting you naked as quickly as possible,” Sherlock finishes causing John to laugh, pull him away from the wall, put his hand on his chest, and push him backwards onto the bed.

Sherlock yelps and then claps a hand over his mouth. “May I remind you your daughter is down the hall.”

“She has headphones,” John replies as Sherlock snorts. It’s cut short, though, when John pounces on him and goes to work on his neck. “Who were those other men?” he breathes. “I want to tear them apart.”

“No one,” Sherlock pants, whining as John licks his pulse point. “No one that mattered.”

John stands once more and unties Sherlock’s Oxfords, dropping them on the floor one after the other with a muffled thunk. He toes off his own next before pulling his jumper over his head. Sherlock decides to speed things up and takes care of his own, but John’s glare is telling him that he is not to touch the button down if he wishes to see this through. Sherlock rights himself on the bed and leans on his elbows, watching as John walks forward, like a predator stalking his prey, and deprives Sherlock of his socks before climbing on top of him and straddling his thighs.

“Hi,” he whispers, cocking his head and smiling softly. The heat is still in his eyes, but it’s tempered by the emotion on his face.

“Hello,” Sherlock replies, holding his right hand up and allowing John to slot their fingers together again.

“I missed you.”

“I missed you too.”

“I’m sorry,” John murmurs.

“I’m sorry too,” Sherlock replies. He pulls John’s hand to his mouth and places a kiss on his knuckles. “Are there more letters for me?”

John swallows and nods, eyes going a bit glassy. “Yeah. There are.”

“May I read them?”

John nods again. “They’re yours.”

“Your daughter’s quite clever, you know.”

John snorts. “She’s a meddling menace.” But then his face goes sad. “I tried so hard to keep her from knowing how unhappy I was. I was happy with her. Ecstatic. But she knew something was missing.” He finally glances up and locks eyes with Sherlock. “Something had been missing her entire life.”

“I’m right here,” Sherlock says, gripping John’s hand harder, if only so it registers.

“I know,” John replies, squeezing right back.

“Good.” Sherlock nudges his hips up, jostling John in the process. “Now you said something about getting me naked and I like a man who keeps his word.”

John barks out a laugh and leans down for a kiss. Just because he can. “Impatient.”

“I prefer ‘impudent.”

“That, too,” John mutters, getting to work on the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt and kissing every new inch of skin that is revealed. Eventually the shirt joins the shoes on the floor and Sherlock grapples blindly with John’s vest until he pulls it over his head with muffled laughter. “How’d you get this?” John asks, pressing a soft kiss over a thick scar on Sherlock’s ribs.

Sherlock inhales, both at the feel of John’s lips and the memory the question drudges up. “Serbia.”

John pauses, forehead creasing, and runs his thumb over the mark before bending down and pressing another kiss there, this one a bit more lingering as if the power of his love alone could banish the bad memories.

Sherlock runs his own thumb over John’s brow, smoothing out the pain there. “None of that,” he murmurs. “Not now.” John nods, but he still looks troubled so Sherlock points to another scar on his elbow. “Ask about this one.”

John smiles and sits up, asking very formally, “How did you acquire this one?”

“Mishap with a garden hoe,” Sherlock replies and John laughs, looking infinitely younger than he did a moment ago. He gets to work on Sherlock’s belt as the man mutters a haughty, “About time.”

John swats at his arse with a “Cheeky bastard,” and yanks the offending trousers off like a magician removing a tablecloth from beneath a feast. “Oh yes, please,” he murmurs, immediately diving to press his face into the crease of Sherlock’s groin.

Sherlock groans out a “Christ, John,” as he threads his fingers through his silver hair. It takes every ounce of willpower he has to not thrust up against the lips that mouth at the front of his pants. The black cotton briefs are leaving little to the imagination. “Your - your turn.”

“Mmm,” John replies, placing one last open mouth kiss against the front of Sherlock’s damp pants, before kneeling back and undoing his own belt.

“Wait - let me.” Sherlock sits up and does away with the clasp, sliding his hands around and grabbing a handful of plush arse, pushing the jeans off John’s hips and taking the pants with them. His cock springs free and Sherlock’s mouth waters as he gently wraps his long fingers around its sizable girth and gives it an experimental stroke.

John makes a strangled noise and Sherlock looks up to find his head tilted back and his teeth nearly biting a hole in his lip, as he clenches his eyes shut.

“I want to hear you.”

“Daughter down the hall,” John reminds, but his voice is high and tight. He allows Sherlock to stroke him a few more times before he grips his wrist and brings it up to his lips, pressing a kiss on his thundering pulse. “Too good,” he murmurs at Sherlock’s questioning look. “Don’t want to get too excited.” Then he turns Sherlock’s hand over and examines a scar on one of his knobby knuckles. “And this one?”

“Burned it baking."

“Baking?” John chuckles, pressing a kiss on the scar. “Since when do you bake?”

“Since Mycroft made me watch the Great British Bake Off ten years ago. John, you have the rest of our lives to get to know my body,” he babbles. “It does not need to be learned in one bloody night.”

John chuckles but his eyes are soft. “The rest of our lives?”

“Obviously. Don’t be tedious.”

John cocks an eyebrow and gives Sherlock a firm stroke over his pants which has the air leaving Sherlock’s lungs with a moaned huff as he falls back against the pillows once more. “Oh I’m sorry,” John mocks, “what was that about being tedious?”

“I hate you.”

“You love me.”

“God help me, I do,” he moans, fingers scrambling to get the offending garment off and give John as much skin to skin contact as he desires. The pants join John’s jeans and Sherlock spreads his legs, allowing John to settle in between them. They both groan as their cocks slot next to to each other and John gives an experimental thrust which Sherlock eagerly returns.

“God, Sherlock,” John moans. “You feel... so good.”

Sherlock’s hand blindly scrambles for the bedside table and John watches him amusedly. “Looking for something?”

“You know damn well what I’m looking for,” Sherlock growls.

“You’re adorable when you’re angry and aroused.”

“I. am. not. adorable,” Sherlock huffs, but he knows the pout gracing his lips is not helping his case. Still, it gets John to open the drawer and pull out a half-used bottle of lube, which has Sherlock raising an eyebrow.

“Been busy?”

“With my own hand, yes,” John replies, pouring some into his palm and giving Sherlock a stroke which has his back arching. “You know,” he says more quietly, “we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

Sherlock blinks his eyes open to find John’s earnest face hovering over him. “I want you in me, John Watson.”

John eyes flutter shut and he slowly exhales a long breath. “Warn a bloke before you start saying stuff like that.”

Sherlock smiles, takes the lube from John’s hand, and adds more to his already slicked up fingers. “If you wouldn’t mind. In your own time.”

“But quite quickly?”  

He hums. “Maybe not. It’s… been a while.” He tenses as John’s finger circles his hole, gentle massaging the tight muscle.

“Easy,” John coos. “I’ve got you.”

“I know,” Sherlock gasps as John’s finger breaches him. “You?”

“How long? Sex in general,” John pants, “or this act in particular?”

“Either.” He draws the word out on a moan as John explores.

“There were a couple of women when Rosie was younger. No one for a while.”

“And men?”

John shakes his head and places a kiss on the inside of Sherlock’s knee. “Not since the army.” He takes that moment to hook his finger and Sherlock keens toward the ceiling.

“God, do it again.”

“Oh yes,” John hungrily replies as he places another open-mouthed kiss on Sherlock’s knee, adding a little nip as he grazes Sherlock’s prostate again.

“John,” Sherlock pants, “this may not last long.”

“You’re tellin’ me.”

Sherlock has gotten patient with age, but not much. He allows John to stretch him for a few minutes more, getting up to three fingers, before he declares himself ready and demands that John get in him right now _thank you very much._

John reaches for the bedside table once more, but Sherlock grabs his wrist before he can get a hand on the box of condoms. “Not with us.”

“Then I guess I won’t need them anymore,” John replies a bit tenderly.

“You can bin them later,” Sherlock snaps, grabbing the lube and slicking up John’s cock, which causes him to growl rather deliciously and hike Sherlock’s leg up over his hip. Sherlock’s pupils blow wide. “Well, we’ll be exploring that aspect of this relationship later,” he promises, causing John to giggle.

“You ready?”

“Yes, John,” he replies without a huff because now that the moment is upon them, he can’t help but marvel at the enormity of it. Nineteen years it took them to get here. Twenty-five, if he’s being honest.

John lines up and reaches with his clean hand to gently cup Sherlock’s cheek, bringing him back to himself. “You all right?”

Sherlock nods and swallows, finding his throat remarkably tight. “I am now,” he rasps, guiding John’s lips to his and pressing a chaste kiss to them. John pushes in then and his cry is lost to John’s mouth. They hold for a moment, staring at each other, memorizing every new line, every new color in every single strand of hair. Just breathing.

John's arms are shaking, but he daren't move and Sherlock loves him a bit more for that. The stretch doesn’t burn anymore, so Sherlock leans up to peck a kiss on John’s swollen lips.

“Yeah?” John asks, a sweaty forelock falling into his eyes.

“Yes,” Sherlock replies, hooking his ankles behind John’s back and digging his fingers into his shoulders.

He begins to move then, slow and luxurious, a pace as steady as the rolling sea. It can’t last, though. Not for as wound as they were. John begins to quicken, his hips snapping forward and punching an “uh, uh, uh” out of Sherlock with every thrust that hits home. Sherlock feels like he’s on fire, being consumed from the inside. It’s never felt like this. Not ever. Because for as much as the physical pleasure is overwhelming, the emotional pleasure, the voice in his head that screams _dear God I love this man_ is about to ignite his very soul.

The pleasure continues to build, the pressure taking hold of someplace deep within and squeezing, but then John hikes his hips up further, thrusts in, and Sherlock can’t help the keen that escapes.

“Shhh, my love,” John manages, pressing a fierce kiss as Sherlock whimpers against his lips.

“John,” he moans.

“That’s it, love,” John grunts, struggling to keep the angle as he reaches down and wraps a hand around Sherlock’s straining cock. “Let go. I’ve got you.”

“I’m not… I’m going to - oh God, _John_ ,” Sherlock cries, back arching as he paints their chests with come.

“That’s it. God yes,” John groans, pumping him through it. “Goddamn beautiful.”

He thinks he blacked out for a second - by the time he comes to, John has paused above him and is looking at him like he’s something wondrous.

“That was gorgeous,” John breathes.

Sherlock grins somewhat drunkenly. “Now you.”

“Not too sensitive?”

Sherlock hauls him forward and licks a stripe up his ear. “Fuck me, John Watson.”

And John’s jaw drops so far, Sherlock honestly thinks for a second his words alone made the man come. But then he lets out a guttural moan and begins moving once more.

“Come on, John.” Sherlock urges, gripping the back of his head, fingers sliding through sweaty hair, and pressing their foreheads together. “Come on. I’m with you.”

“God, Sherlock,” John pants. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” he replies, swallowing John’s moan when he stiffens and begins to come.

“Oh God, oh God, oh God, _Sherlock_.” His head falls back and his hips snap forward. He groans, long and low, slowing his movements as Sherlock continues to swallow the choked off noises he can’t help but make. Eventually his arms give out and he collapses, careful not to crush Sherlock beneath him, and presses a sloppy, uncoordinated kiss to the corner of Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock holds him tightly, arms and legs still wrapped around him. They lay like that until John goes completely soft and only then does Sherlock allow him to roll away, pulling Sherlock to his chest as he goes, so his ear rests on John’s still rapidly beating heart.

“Holy God,” John mutters after a moment, breath still escaping in pants.

“Quite,” Sherlock replies, limbs utterly limp. “We could have been doing this for _years_.”

John’s breath hitches and Sherlock curses himself for ruining the moment. “Better late than never, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Sherlock replies, nudging his nose into John’s neck and smelling the earthy scent of him.

No words need to be said. They’re here now. That’s all that matters. They doze on and off for a half hour or so, until eventually John pads to the en suite and wets a warm flannel, maneuvering Sherlock so he can gently clean the come and lube from between his legs.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, grabbing John by the wrist and tugging him back on the bed. John lets the flannel fall to the floor and cups Sherlock’s face in his hands.

“I love you so much. I’m such an idiot.”

“We’re both idiots,” Sherlock replies. “Time to move on.” He says it for his own sake as well as for John’s. They’ve spent so much time dwelling on the past that they’ve neglected the present and ignored the future. And only then does he look over to the other side of the room and realize what's sitting in the corner. Something that causes his lungs to feel like they're trapped in an ever-tightening vise:

John's chair from 221B.

John follows his gaze and smiles. "Wondered when you'd notice."

"How did you...? This was still in the flat when I left. I told Mrs. Hudson to donate everything." 

John shrugs. "Movers knocked on my door one day. No name. No note. I had a feeling it was Mycroft's doing, but frankly, I was so glad to see the damn thing, I didn't bother asking." 

"John," Sherlock breathes, wetness gathering in the corner of his eyes. 

"None of that," John repeats back to him, catching a tear with the back of his finger. 

"You have your chair." 

"I do." 

"And you named your daughter after me." 

John visibly swallows. "I did." 

He buries his face in John's chest then, fluttering his eyelashes against warm skin as John's fingers trace patterns on his back. "I've got you," he murmurs softly, pressing kisses into Sherlock's curls. 

“John... I don’t want to intrude on the good thing you and Rosie have,” he says carefully, but John is already shaking his head.  

“Sherlock, you’ve been a phantom presence in this family her whole life.” He licks his lips and traces his thumb across Sherlock’s cheekbone. Sherlock turns his head and presses a kiss to his palm. “I’ve spent enough time living with the phantom of Sherlock Holmes. I’m selfish. I want the real thing.” He swallows. “If he’ll have me.”

Sherlock glances saucily at the mussed sheets. “Pretty sure he just did.” It gets a chuckle from John, which had been his goal, but then he gets serious. Because the time for jokes is over. “Rosie said you’re thinking of putting the house on the market.”

John frowns at the abrupt topic change, but hums. “She’s going back to uni in a few weeks. It’s just… too big for one person.”

And then, for the first time in his life, Sherlock knows exactly what he wants. He wants John’s bed-head tickling his nose as they lay entwined. He wants Rosie’s knowing look over breakfast in the morning. He wants John in the country with his terrible jumpers and his perfect tea. He wants slow lovemaking in front of the fire and moans and cries that don’t have to be muffled. He wants John's chair back where it belongs, next to his and with John in it. 

He’s not neglecting the present anymore. He refuses to ignore the future.

“If you ever tire of the city,” he offers, "I’ve got two bedrooms."

And John’s answering grin could light up Piccadilly. "Do you now," he replies, tempering his elation and tipping Sherlock’s chin up so he can place a kiss on his lips. 

They go another round (not bad for a couple of old men) and in the morning, John’s bed-head tickles his nose and Rosie smirks over her cereal like the cat that got the bloody cream. Edison patiently waits for food to drop and John wraps his arms around Sherlock’s waist while he waits for the coffee to brew.

They sit and eat and John giggles at Sherlock’s red ears and Sherlock throws bacon at him. Edison finally gets his scraps and Rosie sneaks him a few more pieces when she thinks Sherlock isn’t looking. John massages the arch of Sherlock’s foot with his toe beneath the table, which causes Sherlock’s ears to go red all over again, and finally Rosie can stand it no longer as she bursts out with self-satisfied laughter, nearly falling off her chair in the process.

“That’s enough out of you, young lady,” John admonishes with a chuckle as he stands and presses a kiss to Sherlock’s hair as he passes. “I’m going to pack, I’ll be right back.”

Sherlock blinks. “Pack?”  

“Well, yeah,” he replies, sharing a secret look with Rosie before meeting Sherlock’s eyes once more. “I’ve got to meet the bees, don’t I? Get their approval?”

_Oh._

Yes.

Well.

The bees will like that.

Sherlock won’t mind it so much either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm marking this as complete now, but there will likely be an epilogue coming. Because bees.


	3. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For cwb.

London has long since faded in the rearview mirror, but Sherlock’s still grinning even an hour into the drive, thinking of the scene he just left behind and the chaos he gleefully created in his wake.

“You’re a bad man,” John murmurs, but he can’t hide his smile either. “You could have given her a heart attack.”

Sherlock snorts. “Rosie was worried I’d give _you_ one when I arrived.”

“Nearly did, you bastard,” he replies, threading their fingers together on the armrest.

Yes, it was amusing, though perhaps a bit not good. Still, they’ll undoubtedly talk about it for years to come:

_“Mrs. Hudson!” he called, wiping his shoes on the mat and heading back towards 221A._

_“Sherlock?” she replied. It takes her longer to get to the door these days, but luckily he still has a key. “Dear, you didn’t say you’d be visiting. I would have - ” but she stopped, eyes wide and trained just over Sherlock’s shoulder. “Goodness gracious, I’ll be damned.”_

_“Hello, Nana Hudson,” John replied, stepping around Sherlock and placing a kiss on her cheek._

_‘What?” she gaped, eyes darting between the pair of them. “I don’t understand.”_

_“Not sure I do either, but I’m not questioning it,” John grinned, glancing back at Sherlock and nearly knocking him senseless at the love in his eyes._

_“But…” she spluttered. “Both of you? Together? Here?”_

_John smiled, practically vibrating with giddiness as he reached out and laced their fingers together. “So it would seem.”_

_“Oh,” she gasped, clapping her frail hands together. “My_ **_boys_** _! I can’t begin to_ **_tell_ ** _you how long I’ve waited for this. Finally! I honestly didn’t think I’d live to see the day, I’ll have you know - ”_

_“Yes, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock interrupted, which earned him an elbow to the ribs from John. “We’re just off to the country, as it were, but we’ll be in touch.”_

_“You better be,” she stated, pointing a firm finger at each of them. “Don’t think you’re getting out of this without some sort of explanation, young man.”_

_It wasn’t clear which of them she was speaking to, but they both dutifully answered, “Yes, Mrs. Hudson” all the same._

_“Does Rosie know?”_

_“It’s her fault,” Sherlock replied, not sounding the least bit put out by it._

_“I’ll be having a word with her too, make no mistake,” she called as Sherlock dragged John down the hallway._

_“_ _See that you do,” John urged, before tripping over the umbrella stand and falling against Sherlock’s chest._

_Mrs. Hudson made a noise of exasperation as she reached the door of 221A. “What’s the rush? What’s in the country?”_

_“Honey and shagging!” Sherlock replied, opening the door, pushing John through it, shouting out a careless, “Love ya!” and letting it slam shut behind him once more._

John giggles and shakes his head as they exit the motorway and make their way through the smaller country roads. “Honey and shagging.’ I can’t believe you actually said that to her.”

“It’s the truth, isn’t it?” Sherlock looks somewhat worried, but John turns to him, eyes darkening.

“You’re goddamn right it is. I’m shocked you didn’t say, ‘At the same time.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen at the opportunities. “Oh now that’s an idea.”

John barks out a laugh, which causes Edison to join him from the backseat.

“See? He thinks it’s inspired,” Sherlock replies, as they enter the town.

“He will _not_ be watching. Oh,” John points to a Tudor-style building on the corner across from the square, “is that the store where you ran into Rosie?”

“Indeed,” he says with a smile. He has a certain fondness for it now.

“Do you sell your honey there?”

“No,” Sherlock sighs. “Mrs. McGregor’s commission is quite steep. I prefer to wait until the weekly farmer’s market. I have a stall.”

“You have a stall,” John says, fighting hard against his grin.

“Yep,” he says, popping the ‘p,’ unsure what John’s getting at.

“You’re brilliant,” he finally gushes, leaning over and pulling him into a kiss, causing Sherlock to swerve as they make their way down the country lane. “Eyes forward, sailor,” John chuckles, looking quite delighted with himself.

“Yes, I’d prefer we get there in one piece, if it’s all the same to you,” Sherlock huffs. “I have plans for you.”

“I bet you do,” he replies naughtily and Sherlock adjusts his grip on the wheel.

“Down boy,” he growls, but he has to shift in his seat as his trousers tighten uncomfortably.

_Almost home._

John smirks as he gazes out the window, as if knowing exactly what’s on Sherlock’s mind. They’ve both been behaving like randy teenagers, to the point of Rosie screaming, “Oh my god, I’m going out!” when she walked in to find John straddling Sherlock’s lap, shirt halfway over his head for the third time that day. All before noon.

Sherlock’s ears heat and he’s grateful for Edison sticking his nose under his arm as he turns into the drive, eager to be home.

“Do you mind?” he teasingly aims at the dog, but his gaze is on John who’s staring up at the stone cottage slack-jawed.

“Wow, Sherlock,” he breathes as they park. “It’s beautiful.”

“Thank you. It’s home.” And indeed, he already feels the city tension waning, the stiffness of his shoulders giving way to something easier.

He gets out and immediately opens the backdoor so Edison can have a stretch and a sniff. He tells himself he’s not watching John inspect the house, but this first impression is weighing on him. After all, this is his home - where he’s made his life for nearly the past two decades. Where he hopes John will make a life too, at his side, if he should be so lucky.

“Stay on the path,” he warns when John gets a little too close to the garden. “You’ll find the mud is quite thick out here. I have an extra set of wellies inside if you wish to explore.”

“Ta,” John replies with a warm grin, coming back to the car and grabbing his bag out of the back.

Sherlock didn’t dare ask how long he’d packed for. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what deadline John had set for himself for when he had to return.

“C’mon, then,” he says, as much for Edison’s sake as for John’s. The dog has a habit of nosing around the garden for rabbit holes, which results in Sherlock hauling him into the downstairs tub, which neither man nor beast particularly enjoys.  

He unlocks the pale blue door and kicks it open, muttering under his breath as Edison pushes his way past, nearly taking out John in the process. The border collie heads straight for his bed by the hearth and plops down, promptly looking at Sherlock with an expression that says, _Why haven’t you lit this yet?_

“Bloody terror,” he murmurs fondly, shaking his head and taking John’s bag to place it at the bottom of the stairs. He doesn’t have one of his own, not having planned to actually spend the night in London. But Rosie procured a spare toothbrush and pajamas proved unnecessary, so with a shower and a shave, he was all set. Still, he’d prefer to get out of these clothes. “I’m going to change. I won’t be a moment.”

John raises an eyebrow, but the question remains unsaid. _Do you want company?_

If the question doesn’t need to be voiced, then the reply should follow the same logic. _What do you think?_

“I’ll explore the house later,” John manages as he chases Sherlock up the stairs, down the hall, and tackles him onto the bed.

Sherlock lands with an “oof” and an armful of army doctor and he’s really not all that bothered by it as John immediately latches onto his neck.

“Country living, indeed,” he murmurs, running a hand over the colorful quilt atop the navy sheets.

“I’m branching out,” Sherlock replies.

“I like this more vibrant side of you. Next thing you know, you’ll be painting sunflowers like Van Gogh in the back shed.”

“Pl-ease,” he hitches when John gets to his earlobe. “As if anything is going in there but thrip samples.”

“Thrip samples?”

“They’ve been attacking my gardenias.”

John chuckles and his breath is warm on Sherlock’s cheek. “Honestly didn’t even know you had gardenias.”

“I bet you didn’t know I had a back shed either because _someone_ didn’t let me show them the house.”

“Oh,” John mocks, pulling away. “Shall I stop?”

“Don’t you dare,” Sherlock growls, rolling them over and sitting astride him.

“Well, hello.” John grins lasciviously and crosses his arms behind his head, enjoying the view. Sherlock gives a slow roll of his hips that has the grin vanishing and his eyes rolling back. “God.”

“Not quite,” Sherlock gasps when he does it again. “This way, I think, yes?”

John bites his lip and brings his arms down to run his hands up Sherlock’s thighs. “Uh huh.”

They gently rock together for a few moments, their panting breaths the only sound in the bedroom. Their building rhythm barely breaks stride when Sherlock pulls his jumper over his head before fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. John helps him by starting at the bottom and their trembling fingers meet halfway, both scurrying to push it off Sherlock’s pale torso.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” John breathes as he leans up (showing notable abdominal strength) and pulls Sherlock into a kiss. The taller man continues to grind against him as he gets John’s jumper off and tosses it with little care for where it lands.

“You know what the brilliant thing is?” he murmurs.

“What?”

“We don’t have to be quiet,” he says, before cupping his palm over John’s impressive bulge and squeezing, causing the man beneath him to cry out rather fantastically. “Oh that’s the stuff,” he whispers, doing it again and drawing out a long, low moan from his partner.

“Too many clothes,” John whimpers, getting to work on Sherlock’s trousers.

Through much jostling and the occasional elbow to the jaw, they eventually divest themselves of their remaining garments, and Sherlock stands at the foot of the bed, lube in hand, reminding himself to stop and take a moment - to realize that the man eagerly settling against the pillows like a child on Christmas morning who knows the rather large present at the back is for him, is _his._

“What?” he asks softly when Sherlock doesn’t move.

Sherlock shakes his head and gently grabs his foot. “Nothing.”

John wiggles his big toe. “You sure?”

Sherlock pinches it briefly before climbing on the bed and settling atop him once more.

“I’m sure.” He pops open the lube and raises a saucy eyebrow. “Would you like to do the honors?”

“What kind of a question is that?” John huffs, snatching the lube from his hand, pouring a generous helping on his fingers, and inching them beneath Sherlock, grazing his balls in the process.

Sherlock hums and shifts forward, leaning his elbows on either side of John’s head and giving him more room to work. He inhales through his nose and gives an impish smile when John’s finger circles his puckered hole, rubbing, massaging. He begins to press in and Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed as the first finger breaches him.

“Good?” John asks and Sherlock nods, opening his eyes and biting a lip as John explores.

Sherlock stares at John and John stares right back, memorizing each other again after so much time apart. Sherlock nods again after a minute and John adds a second finger, causing Sherlock’s jaw to drop and a whine to escape past his lips.

“You are stunning,” John whispers and it sounds like he’s almost in pain, like the supposed beauty of Sherlock cracks his heart wide open.

Sherlock swallows hard and lifts his hand to cup John’s cheek. “Don’t ever stop,” he whispers, and he doesn’t mean just this. He means looking at him, touching him, breathing with him. _Being._ He doesn’t ever want John to stop being with him.

“Not ever,” John quietly replies, reverently. He adds a third and Sherlock presses back into it, pulling a long groan from John as his fingers are swallowed up by tight, tight heat. He reaches back a bit further and crooks his finger, pulling a deep moan from Sherlock that sounds like it came from the depths of his soul. John can’t help but whimper in reply.

“Good,” he croaks. “I’m good.”

“Okay,” John answers, carefully pulling his fingers from him and planting his feet on the bed as he slicks up his cock.

Sherlock braces himself on John’s chest, lifting up slightly and letting John slot between his cheeks.

“Whenever you’re ready,” John murmurs and Sherlock nods, giving John a quick stroke before slowly lowering himself down. “Jesus, Sherlock,” he grunts, ribs expanding as he exhales harshly. “That’s… God, that’s…”

He wants to say something clever like, _“Oh, fou_ _n_ _d religio_ _n_ _i_ _n_ _your old age?”_ but he can only get out a “Yep,” not even bothering to pop the ‘p’ this time. Too much bloody effort.

It’s slow, but exquisite - the stretch balancing just on the knife’s edge of pleasure and pain. His arse cheeks eventually rest flush against John’s lap and he moans, shifting slightly, allowing the impressive organ inside him find all of his hidden places.

“God, yes,” Sherlock whispers, opening his eyes to find John staring at him with something akin to awe.

“You’re amazing.”

“Haven’t done anything yet,” he replies and John’s expression turns feral.

“No?” He thrusts up and Sherlock keens toward the ceiling. “There it is,” he sing-songs and does it again.

“I’m meant to be fucking you,” Sherlock huffs when he’s got his breath back. His dick is positively aching and precome is steadily dropping onto John’s stomach.

“By all means, my love,” John says with a wink and a gentle press of lips to knuckles on the hand not gripping his good shoulder.

Sherlock features can’t help but soften, despite the pleasure currently vibrating through his body. John has started calling him ‘my love’ and, as pedantic as it sounds, it makes Sherlock’s heart skip a beat whenever he hears it. He leans forward, letting John’s cock slip out of him a bit to press a kiss to John’s lips, before sitting up and slamming back home, causing John to shout hoarsely and slap his hand against the headboard.

“Good thing the nearest neighbors are a mile away,” Sherlock gasps, riding John like his life depends on it.

“Fuck, Sherlock!” John cries, gripping his thighs and lifting his hips to meet him.

It had started out slow and indulgent, but after multiple aborted attempts that morning, they’re both more than a little riled up. Slow can come later, when the stars have come out and the fire has been lit. When Sherlock’s blushes can be hidden in the dark and whispered promises are made more easily.

“Oh God, oh God, oh God,” John’s chanting as Sherlock rocks back and hits that spot inside over and over.

He can’t do more than grunt as if taking a punch to the solar plexus every time his arse slaps against John’s thighs. It won’t last, but it doesn’t have to. They have so much time ahead of them.

“Sherlock, please,” John begs, hair plastered to his forehead, hand still gripping the top of the headboard.

“Come on, John,” Sherlock urges, sliding his hands under John’s knees to brace himself as he slides up and drops down repeatedly.

“I’m gonna come… oh fuck, oh fuck, I’m coming, _ugh_.” John goes tense, abs contracting beneath Sherlock as his hips continue to stutter up into him.

The feel of John’s warm release spurting inside has Sherlock’s back arching and body stiffening, letting out a primal moan as his fingers dig into John’s thighs. He gets one hand around his cock for a single stroke and that’s it, that’s all it takes before he’s shooting all over John’s heaving chest.

“ _Johnnnn_ ,” he trails off and slumps back against the legs still braced behind him on the bed, utterly drained, as John pants, “Fuck, oh fuck,” over and over as he winds down. Their bodies continue to twitch through the aftershocks, each contraction milking a bit more of the other in turn.

By the time Sherlock is finally able to open his sweat-stung eyes, John’s abdomen is covered in his release. “I cannot move,” he groans, collapsing forward, not caring a whit for the mess.

“Me neither,” John replies, hand finally releasing the headboard and burying itself in Sherlock’s damp curls. “That was…” he trails off, inhaling deeply.

“Quite,” Sherlock replies, muffled against John’s warm chest. They lay there for a bit, breaths eventually syncing up. The quiet is broken by the sound of John’s stomach rumbling beneath his ear and Sherlock chuckles, a deep, satisfied thing, blowing hot breath onto John’s already flushed skin. “Work up an appetite?”

“So it would seem. Though I’m pretty sure you did most of the work. I just laid back and enjoyed the view.”

Sherlock hums and presses himself up to seated, causing both of them to moan at the change in angle.

“Oh and what a view it is,” he groans, before saying wistfully, “If I were but a younger man.”

Sherlock cards his fingers through his silver hair and John leans into the touch before guiding him down into a chaste kiss, causing both of them to gasp when John finally slips out of him.

Sherlock makes a noise of disgust, feeling the warm combination of come and lube slip down his legs. John smiles naughtily before tapping Sherlock’s hip, gently urging him off so he can get a flannel, but Sherlock beats him to it. John cleaned up the last time after giving him a thoroughly satisfying shag and Sherlock is more than happy to pamper him while John stares up with drowsy, love-filled eyes as his cock is gently cleaned.

John’s stomach rumbles again and he shushes it, but Sherlock merely places his palm on his belly and rubs it in a circle as he stands beside the bed.

“I don’t have much in. I did a bit of shopping on Saturday with the bike, but Sunday is usually my day to stock up.” Since Sunday was spent in London altering the course of his life, his cupboards are rather bare after the spag bol feast he and Rosie shared. “If anything, Edison needs food. He does get so grumpy if I forget to feed him.”

John chuckles. “Do you do that often? Forget?” It’s teasing, but also a sharp reminder that John hasn’t been around these last years. Sherlock rarely forgets the needs of his own body anymore, let alone Edison’s. And he would _never_ forget Edison’s. “Hey,” John murmurs. “You all right?” Sherlock nods but John is not placated. “It was a joke, love. I know how much you adore that dog. You would never neglect him.”

Sherlock’s chest warms and John’s stomach rumbles again.

“Oh my god, shut up!” John cries as Sherlock laughs.

“But I seem to be neglecting _you_ ,” he says and John sits up and wraps his arms around Sherlock’s skinny torso.

“Never,” he breathes into his skin, before giving him a nip and soothing it with a kiss. “How about a shower and then a trip to the shops? You can give me the grand tour upon our return. But I have to say,” he says, finally taking a long glance around the room, “I love it so far.”

Sherlock smiles so hard his eyes squint, and he places his hands atop John’s on his stomach. “I’m glad.”

The shower is quick (compared to how _not_ quick it almost became had Sherlock let John’s hands wander where they wanted to) and they dress - khaki trousers and a navy jumper for Sherlock, jeans and a plaid button-down for John. Edison only whines a little when he sees them put their wellies on and head for the car.  

“Many of the roads aren’t paved,” Sherlock explains as they climb into the Rover. “I take to wearing them most days, just in case something catches my eye and I decide to get out.”

“Very sensible,” John replies as he holds his hand out, palm up, on the armrest so Sherlock may take it. “I like country you.”

Sherlock glances at him out of the corner of his eye. “Do you?”

John hums. “Yes. You’re… softer. More curves, less angles. Still just as skinny, though. And brilliant.”

Sherlock tucks his chin and blushes. “Thank you.”

As it’s Monday, the streets are relatively quiet with all of the weekend tourist traffic having gone home. They park the car and Sherlock watches out of the corner of his eye as John casually ( _too_ casually) clocks the doctor’s office on the other side of the square. He turns and catches Sherlock studying him. John clears his throat and nods around at the buildings.

“Charming.”

“Mm. Its quaintness can be tedious, but the seclusion has its benefits.” The bell over the door chimes as they enter, and he realizes he should probably give John a warning, but before he can, Mrs. McGregor is trilling a greeting from behind the counter.

“Bless me, William, twice in three days! To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Mrs. McGregor, how good to see you,” he replies as John frowns at him and mouths, “ _William_?” Sherlock smiles tightly and shakes his head. “House guests, as you can see.”

Mrs. McGregor eyes John up and down in a not-at-all subtle manner. “Indeed I do.”

Sherlock has to turn his back to hide his chuckle as John, ever the gentleman, steps forward and offers his hand. “John Watson, how do you do?”

“Ginny McGregor, pleasure,” she replies with a blush. “John Watson… now why does that name sound familiar?” She taps her pencil on her plump chin and Sherlock visibly tenses.

“It’s common enough,” John says smoothly, surreptitiously wrapping his fingers around Sherlock’s wrist behind the tomato display. “Been a burden all my life.”

“No, I’m sure my George knows a John Watson - ” And of course the blasted man picks that moment to come up from the cellar carrying a box of potatoes. “Oh, George, dear, didn’t you know a John Watson?”

“John Watson?”

“Yes,” she gestures to John, who grips Sherlock’s wrist harder.

George drops the box with a thud and wipes his hands on a rag sticking out of his back pocket. “Isn’t Watson that doctor what hung around with the detective?”

“That’s it,” Mrs. McGregor says, clapping her hands in a brief moment of triumph, before she pales and a tiny “Oh” falls from her lips, realization dawning on her face.

Sherlock holds his breath as George’s curious gaze jumps from one to the other, but then he shakes his head.

“Nah, can’t say that I do. If you need anything from the back, just let the missus know and she’ll give me a ring.” With that, he returns to the cellar and Sherlock exhales audibly. John finally lets go of his wrist, and is quick to pick up a basket to fill.

But Sherlock doesn’t move, because Mrs. McGregor is staring at him like _that_. “William _Holmes_ ,” she murmurs. John freezes where he’s examining boxes of pasta and Sherlock closes his eyes.

“Mrs. McGregor - ” he begins, but she cuts him off with a wave of her hands.

“Oh dear, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, but it’ll be our secret.” She taps the side of her nose and nods emphatically. “I promise.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock replies. The woman is well into her seventies and loves the local gossip as much as the next person, but he also knows she has a soft spot for him. And a rapidly developing crush on a particular army doctor. She may just keep her word.

“You know, my Davey is on the force,” she continues, almost nervous now that she knows exactly to whom she’s speaking. “You wouldn’t have known him - you were before his time, if you don’t mind me saying - but they still talk about you. The Great Sherlock Holmes.”

“Really not all that great,” he mutters, feeling his ears heat, but John clears his throat.

“I beg to differ.”

“They talk about you too, Dr. Watson,” she says with a wink that has John’s ears turning a matching shade of red.

“Ta,” he replies. “This one deserves the credit, though.”

Sherlock glares at him, but John only looks innocently back.

“Well, bless my soul,” she says, almost choked up. “Had I known I had Sherlock Holmes in my shop, I would have given Edison an extra treat.”

“You already give him too many,” Sherlock replies with a fond grin.

She rings them up, fills their bags, and sends them off with another tap to her nose. They exit into the late afternoon sun and pack the bags into the back of the car. John is quiet as he spares another look around the square.

“Why don’t you want anyone to know who you are?” he asks after a moment.

“I’m retired,” Sherlock clips.

John gently places the eggs on the floor of the backseat before climbing in the passenger side and clearing his throat. “I’m sorry. Had it not been for me, your secret identity would still be just that.”

“It’s not a secret identity, John,” Sherlock grouses good-naturedly as he gets behind the wheel. “My name _is_ William Holmes. I’m not exactly Batman.”

John stares at him for a second before letting out a peal of laughter.

“Oh, what now?”

John recovers enough to ask, “How on _earth_ do you know who Batman is?”

Sherlock huffs and puts the car in gear. “Lestrade makes me suffer through almost as many inane films as you used to. Besides. If forced to choose between John Watson and William Holmes, John Watson would win every time.” He carefully doesn’t look to his left, but he can feel John’s gaze on his face.

“Thank you,” he murmurs after a moment. “I don’t feel I deserve it, but thank you.”

“You can show me your thanks later. In bed. Without clothes. Non-negotiable.”

John snorts. “Deal.”

Sherlock takes the long route home, showing off the surrounding farmlands. It takes them over little streams and through another tiny town full of cobblestone streets. He parks the car outside a nondescript shop and leaves the keys in the ignition.

“Vincenzo’s family owns a vineyard back in Tuscany. He gets me a deal on cases of chianti. Won’t be a moment.”

He doesn’t give John a chance to reply before he’s out of the car and conversing in rapid Italian with Vincenzo who greets him at the door. They disappear inside the dark shop (“Il sole non è buono per il vino, Signor Holmes.”) and Sherlock picks up a case of his favorite, allowing Vincenzo to help him haul it to the idling Rover.

John is pacing back and forth a few meters away on the phone. Sherlock eyes him for a moment, but then Vincenzo smacks him on the back.

“Ciao, mio amico.”

“Ciao. Grazie,” Sherlock manages, watching as John holds up his finger as if to say _One minute_ and Sherlock nods, sliding into the driver’s seat once more. John opens the door maybe ten seconds later and slides the mobile back into the pocket as he gets in. “Rosie?” Sherlock asks.

“Hm? Oh. No. Work thing.”

His chest seizes. “Anything wrong?”

John smiles. “Nothing at all. And Rosie has been texting. Lewd messages every hour on the hour.”

“What was her last one?”

John doesn’t even need to pull the phone back out. “Make sure you stretch regularly. You know how tight your hamstrings get with vigorous exercise.”

Sherlock barks out a laugh and pulls the car away from the vintner. “Tell her I’ll give you a rubdown.”

“Absolutely not.” But then he clarifies. “To the texting. Not to the rubdown.”

“Thought so,” Sherlock smirks as they make their way back home, the back laden with paper bags full of groceries.

John had insisted on cooking dinner, if Sherlock would bake dessert. Ever since the reveal that he’s fond of the Great British Bake Off, John’s been bugging to try one of his creations. He finally caved when John asked him yet again during a rather vulnerable moment - after orgasm number two in as many hours - which is why there’s currently enough chocolate in the back for Mary Berry’s religieuses. He doesn’t know what John’s cooking. He just held the basket as items were tossed in.

They grab their wares and drag them inside, immediately putting the cold items in the refrigerator and laying out what they’d need to cook with that evening on the counter.

“So... “ John says as he turns and crosses his arms, “about that tour.”

Sherlock ducks his head, a blush coming to his face. He’s not even sure why. Maybe it’s because he desperately wants John to like it here. And because John is a bloody mind reader, he tugs Sherlock forward by his jumper and presses a soft, but lingering kiss on his lips.

“I told you, I love it already,” he whispers, nosing along Sherlock’s jaw and feeling the beat of his heart under where his hand rests.

Sherlock sighs the sigh of the deeply content and shuffles a bit further into John’s space, revelling in the fact that the man’s arms wrap around him and hold him tight without a thought. “Well, you’ve seen the bedroom - ”

“Indeed,” John drawls.

“The bathroom - ”

“Charming. Love a clawed foot tub. Big enough for two.”

Sherlock chuckles and buries his face in John’s neck, inhaling deeply. “The living room.”

John hums and cards his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “Looks cosy enough, but might need further practical evaluation.”  

“The kitchen.”

“Loving the view at the moment,” John replies, leaning back and pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s nose.

Sherlock’s chest goes tight and he places a hand on the counter behind John as if to steady himself because the annoying part of his brain that remembers lonely nights during long winters is telling him this is only temporary. A taste of what he could have before it’s snatched away once more.

“You all right, love?” John asks, brow furrowed.

Sherlock places a kiss there if only to erase the crease. It does nothing to ease the concern in John’s eyes, though. “Fine. Just... “ _The truth_ , his brain supplies. _Tell him the truth_. “Just getting used to you being here.”

John quirks an eyebrow. It’s not accusatory in the slightest but Sherlock feels the visceral need to elaborate.

"It’s just… for the longest time, it was me, Edison, and the bees.” He inhales and leans forward, pressing John up against the counter. And John takes his weight without a thought. “And now there’s you.” He watches as John visibly swallows. “When I first came here, I spent so much time thinking, ‘What would John say to that?’ ‘Would he like that color scheme?’ Eventually I convinced myself that it didn’t matter - you would never be there so what was the point? And yet…”

“Here I am,” John murmurs, letting go of Sherlock’s hip to cup his cheek.

“Here you are.” Sherlock presses their foreheads together and closes his eyes.

“I like the color scheme, by the way,” John replies after a quiet moment, causing Sherlock to give a low chuckle.

“I’m glad. But next, the yard, I think.”

“Right,” John says with a smile on his face before going over to the door and tugging his wellies back on. “Onward.”

Sherlock shows him the garden with its tomatoes, the lab in the shed that’s used to test soil samples rather than congealed blood, and the stream in the back that old Mr. Wagner next door swears has fish, though Sherlock has yet to see a single one. John’s phone continues to buzz ( **Are you using proper protection? Xo Rosie)** and John reads the increasingly ludicrous texts aloud, even as his face turns a delightful shade of red. By the time they get around to the hives, the sun is low in the sky, barely peeking over the treetops and John promises to see them tomorrow. No doubt he can see the disappointment on Sherlock’s face.

“C’mon, love. We’ve all the time in the world. They’ll be sick of me before you know it.”

“Bees don’t get sick of people,” he huffs, and John slides their fingers together, tugs him closer, and presses a lingering kiss to his lips.

“Besides, I have something for you that will occupy your time while I cook.”

Sherlock arches an eyebrow. “Does it involve nudity?”

John laughs. “Ah, not as such.”

“Damn.”

“Come on.” He drags him into the cottage and they divest themselves of their wellies and strip their coats, hanging them on the rack by the back door in the mudroom.

Sherlock goes to fix Edison’s dinner while John disappears upstairs. At the sound of kibble being poured into the ceramic dog bowl, the border collie comes bounding into the kitchen despite his age, skidding to a stop at Sherlock’s side, wagging his tail, but waiting dutifully.

“Sit,” Sherlock says with a smirk as Edison does so immediately. He makes him wait a moment, before muttering, “All right,” and the dog dives forward, burying his snout in the bowl and getting bits of food all over the hardwood floor. Sherlock chuckles and gives him a pat, knowing that no scattered piece will go uneaten. Edison is the best hoover he owns.

John meets him in the doorway separating the kitchen from the living room, left hand fidgeting at his side as his right holds out an envelope

“What’s this?”

John licks his lips. “Your next letter.”

 _Oh,_ he thinks rather momentously. “Oh?” he manages, voice going a tad higher than he’d like.  

John continues fidgeting as nervous ticks abound. “It’s actually dated before the one you already read. It’s the first one I ever wrote, in fact. I’m not sure what made me start addressing my posts to you. I think I just missed you.” He gives a gentle shrug. “After a while, I stopped realizing I was doing it.”

Sherlock nods solemnly and carefully takes the letter from John’s outstretched hand. “Shall I read it now?”

“If you like.” John’s careful nonchalance isn’t fooling Sherlock for a second.

He leans forward and presses a kiss to John’s cheek, gently maneuvering him to the side so he can move past him into the living room and sit in his chair, fingers trembling as they unfold the piece of paper. He glances up, but John is no longer in the doorway. He’s giving him his privacy.

Sherlock swallows and stares down at the words in his hand:

**_Dear Sherlock,_ **

**_Rosie’s three today._ **

He has to stop and hold the letter to his chest. _Three_. That means John started writing nearly 16 years ago.

He closes his eyes and wills his heart to keep beating. Wills his eyes to remain dry. He already cried all over the last letter. He’d like to retain _some_ of his dignity this time around.

With a deep inhale, he continues, stomach twisting in knots.

**_Rosie’s three today. We went to the park because it was unseasonably warm and I pushed her on the swings. She kept yelling “higher!” and it made me think of you. I honestly don’t know why. Maybe because I have an irrational fear of seeing the people I love flying through the air from great heights. But Rosie wasn’t flying. She was strapped safely in the toddler swing (I should know - I triple-checked the buckles). You weren’t flying either, really. Falling isn’t flying._ **

His first tear falls, splashing against the pristine white page, dignity be damned.

**_I keep wondering what our lives would be like if you were still in them. Would you still call Rosie “Watson”? Would you have her listing the periodic table by now? Probably not. But I do wonder what wild words you’d have her saying that would get me a call from the daycare center. ‘Experiment’? Four syllables, perhaps a bit much. ‘Murder’ seems much more likely._ **

Sherlock chuckles despite himself and hastily runs the back of his hand across his face. It comes back wet.

**_I honestly don’t know why I’m writing. Perhaps because… I miss you. I do. I don’t deserve to, because I know I’ve been a right prat, but there it is. I wish Rosie knew you. I wish you knew her. I wish you were with us today, sitting on a bench and calculating the physics of the perfect arc to give Rosie maximum exhilaration and, therefore, giggles. Because you’d do that. For her, you would. You’d love her giggles._ **

**_Right, well. I don’t know what else to say. It was a good day and I wanted to share it with someone. The first good day in a while, if I’m honest._ **

**_I may call around to Baker Street in the next week. We owe Mrs. Hudson a visit. May knock on the door of 221B if I have the courage._ **

**_I guess we’ll see._ **

**_John_ **

Sherlock bows his head and lets the letter hang limp between his fingers, silent sobs shaking his frame.

 _I pushed her on the swings,_ John had written _. I wish you were with us today._

But Sherlock remembers that day because he _was_ there that day.

 _‘Higher, Daddy!”_ Rosie had kept yelling and John chuckled and pushed just a little harder, but not hard enough to jostle her. Sherlock watched from behind a tree as John’s steady gaze tracked the arc his daughter made in the air, her blonde curls streaming behind her like ribbons in the wind.

 _You’d love her giggles._ God, he did. He absolutely, truly did. But Sherlock doesn’t know if John ever did get the courage to knock on 221B, because that was the day he decided he needed to move. To retire. That was the day he realized he could no longer live in a city where he could not share in John Watson’s happiness.

He’s not sure how long he stays there - long enough for his knees to protest more than usual when he eventually stands with newfound resolve. He doesn’t remember stumbling to the kitchen either, but there he is, leaning against the doorframe and rasping, “Where are the rest?”

He _needs_ to know if John knocked on that door.

John looks up from the stove where he stirs something that smells frankly delicious and nods at a box on the table. It’s small, as if for a pair of shoes, but beaten. As if it’s been handled multiple times. Taken out and hidden away again.

“May I?”

And John nods again, because he’d never deny Sherlock this. That, Sherlock knows.

He gingerly takes the box with reverence, grateful that John doesn’t comment on the puffiness of his face or the redness of his eyes. John doesn’t actually comment on anything, lowering his gaze back down to the hob and dutifully going about his business, giving Sherlock his space.

Sherlock doesn’t think he’s ever loved him more.

He heads back to his chair and places the box on his lap, carefully opening the lid. The box may be worn, but the papers are fresh. Of course, the blog was digital. John printed these out especially for the occasion. The question of “when?” remains unanswered - perhaps while he and Rosie were walking Edison that morning - frankly, he doesn’t care. John’s words are in front of him now and that’s all he needs.

**_Dear Sherlock,_ **

**_I knocked._ **

He lets out a sob.

**_I got up the courage and knocked but… Mrs. Hudson told me you moved. I don’t - I can’t -_ **

**_I don’t know what to say.  I guess I really have ruined it, if I drove you from your home. Your city. I don’t deserve your friendship (did I ever?)._ **

**_God, Sherlock, I’m so sorry. Sorrier than you’ll ever know._ **

**_John_ **

But John kept writing. Week after week, year after year. They weren’t always long - sometimes just a sentence or two - but they were consistent: updates about Rosie ( ** _Dear Sherlock, Rosie took her A-levels today. You’d be so proud…._** ), complaints about the weather ( ** _Dear Sherlock, it’s been raining for seventeen sodding days. I know we live in England, but JESUS..._** ), and sometimes it was more personal ( ** _Dear Sherlock, Rosie asked about her mother today. I lied. I lied to my daughter. I’m a shit father...._** ) Those are the ones that are hardest to read.

The greeting remains the same (after all, John doesn’t seem the **_Dearest_ ** type - this isn’t a Victorian romance novel), but he watches as the signatures change, pivoting on that crucial letter that Rosie carried around with her for four months from simply **_John_ ** to **_Your John._ **

And he was his. Even if Sherlock didn’t know it.

He swallows as he places the most recently read letter on the pile and picks up the final one, written, it seems, just over a week ago:

**_Dear Sherlock,_ **

**_Rosie left for the beach today. A week with some friends in Eastbourne. I hate watching her walk out the door (the over-protective streak in me, I guess), but it made me wonder if perhaps she’s heading near you. I honestly have no idea. You could very well be in someplace exotic like Monte Carlo or the Amalfi Coast. You’d fit right in (perhaps not with that pale skin, though. Is it still pale? I assume so.). If Mrs. Hudson knows where you are, she hasn’t told me. And truth be told, I haven’t the gall to ask. It’s not my place. Not anymore._ **

**_Sometimes I see CCTV cameras follow Rosie as we walk around the city. I haven’t talked to your brother in twenty years, but he still keeps an eye on my daughter. Sometimes, I pretend that that’s your doing, but I’m just a delusional old man these days. Still -_ **

**_I’m more grateful than you or he could know._ **

**_Your John_ **

_My John,_ Sherlock smiles. _My clever John._ It _was_ his doing. In fact, it was the last favor he asked of his brother before he left the city limits and he didn’t even get the full sentence out before Mycroft was replying:

_“I’ll watch out for them.”_

By the time he places that final letter on the carefully stacked pile, it’s nearly midnight and he feels emotionally and physically drained. The house is quiet, which is why the rumbling of his stomach sounds thunderous in the hovering silence. He stands on shaky legs and pads to the kitchen, but John is no longer there. There is a note stuck to the handle of the oven, though, that just reads, _Eat please._ He opens it to find the shepherd’s pie John cooked being kept warm on a low temperature. There’s a piece missing that John must have eaten earlier. There’s another note just at eye-level on one of the knobs that controls the temperature that reads, _Turn me off when you’re done._

He smiles as he takes the dish out, scoops a small portion onto a plate, and carries it to the table. It’s hearty and satisfying, but not quite the comfort or nourishment he needs. No, he can only get that from one person at the moment and the faster he takes care of his transport, the faster a particular army doctor can take care of the rest. He cleans his dish and turns the oven off, placing the pie in the refrigerator for tomorrow’s leftovers.

He feels numb and yet full at the same time, as if feeling so much that his body has just shut down in its effort to process. As he reaches the stairs and steps over one of the many dog beds, he realizes Edison is not downstairs either. John must have carried him up. The thought makes Sherlock’s chest ache all over again.

He turns the corner into the bedroom and stops at the sight before him - a sight he definitely could get used to: John, looking rumpled in his plaid pajamas and grey threadbare vest, propped up against a mountain of pillows, reading an old spy novel with Edison curled up by his feet. He glances up as the glasses he now apparently uses slide down his nose. It’s… a good look.

“Hey,” John murmurs.  

“Hello,” he replies, voice rough.  

John tosses the covers back and pats the space beside him as Edison thumps his tail, before jumping down and settling on his own bed on the floor. “Did you eat?”

“A few bites.”

He nods and places his book on the table and the glasses on top of it. “I wasn’t sure what side you like to sleep on.”

Sherlock shrugs and gestures nondescriptly. “I sort of… spread out all over.” He climbs into bed, not even bothering with pajamas, as John snorts and pulls him closer.

“Color me surprised.”

He wants to smile, but all he can do is shudder. His body quakes, but the man beside him just holds him tighter. “John…”

“You don’t have to say anything. Not yet.”

“Yes I do, because I don’t know how to… contain all that I’m feeling.”

“It’s a lot,” John whispers. “I know. That’s why I had to write it down.”

Sherlock swallows, feeling the stinging at the corner of his eyes again. “How do you do this?”

John places a kiss in his hair. “What, my love?”

“ _Live._ Live with... everything we missed out on.” He can feel John sigh beneath him and he rises and falls with the breath in his chest.

“Hey,” John murmurs, nudging him with his nose until Sherlock looks up at him. “We’re not yet 60. Granted, I’m much closer to it than you are, but I’m counting on thirty more years with you at _least._ Unless you go and do something stupid like swan off the roof while cleaning out the gutters.”

Sherlock can’t help but chuckle and rest his head against John’s chin. John presses his lips to his forehead and combs his fingers through his hair.

 _While cleaning out the gutters._ Not while trying to outwit a maniacal genius. Because those days are behind them.

Way, _way_ behind them.

“Yeah?” John urges, and Sherlock realizes he hasn’t said anything yet.

“Yes,” he replies. He sighs, his transport settling into this new, equal-balanced contentment, quite possibly for the first time in his life. Then he frowns. “I never made the religieuses.”

John laughs. “There’s always tomorrow.”

 _Yes,_ he supposes. There is.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep. He doesn’t remember even being drowsy enough to do so, but somehow he did, with John’s fingers carding through his hair, occasionally tracing the shell of his ear.

He remembers waking sometime in the middle of the night, though, and pressing kisses to the underside of John’s chin until the man deigned to wake and return the favor. They’re sleepy, lazy kisses, never quite building to the heat of the height of passion, but desire is there all the same, guiding their clothes to the floor and their bodies together.

“Like this?” John whispers when Sherlock tugs at his hips until he’s resting in the space between Sherlock’s legs, which is just snug enough as if it were made for him. As if they were built for this.

“Yes,” Sherlock replies, wrapping his legs around John’s strong back and crossing them at the ankle.

They’re quiet throughout, not for lack of pleasure or passion, but forgoing vocality for focus. John’s thrusts are slow, but precise and when Sherlock eventually comes with John’s name on his lips, it’s so intense he feels like a cloth being wrung dry. John follows him a moment later with an emotionally whispered “ _God, love_ ” as he stiffens and empties himself inside Sherlock’s body. Tears are on both of their faces, mingling with sweat as they press their cheeks together, trading fierce kisses that taper off into sleepy pecks. John eventually rolls off of him, but only to gather him to his chest and tangle their legs together, whispered “I love you”s dancing on the edge on his ear.

It’s the most cherished Sherlock’s ever felt in his entire life.

When he wakes the following morning at a much more respectable hour, he is alone in the bed. For a moment, it doesn’t occur to him that anything about this is wrong, but then he feels the sheets against his bare skin and the pleasant ache of his backside. He sees John’s book on the side table and the indentation of his head still on the pillow beside him. The blankets are cool so John’s been gone for a fair bit of time. His pajamas are missing from where they were carelessly chucked on the floor and Sherlock has a mind to wrap himself in a dressing gown before padding downstairs in search of his lover.

Lover?

Partner. _Yes, much better._

The kitchen smells like coffee but John is nowhere inside. No, Sherlock sees him through the window above the sink, sitting in the large wooden Adirondack chair, legs tucked up so the blanket wrapped around his shoulders cocoons him entirely.

He pulls on his wellies, thankful he thought to throw socks on (the cottage is ever so drafty) and opens the backdoor, shuffling over to the chair. As he gets closer, he realizes that John looks much younger, wrapped up as he is. It’s almost as if no time has passed at all.

“What are you doing?” he blurts.

“Introducing myself,” John replies with a soft smile.

“To whom?” Sherlock asks, still sleepily befuddled.

“The bees, you silly man.” John gestures to the hives with his coffee cup, before lowering his legs so his socked feet touch the stone patio and unwrapping the blanket invitingly. “C’mon on, then.”

Sherlock stares at him for a moment, trying to wrestle with the utter _love_ he feels _,_ before he pads over and gently situates himself across John’s lap, his legs dangling over the side of the chair as John gets an arm around his back. John scoots down further and wraps the blanket around him, careful not to spill any coffee, and settles Sherlock’s head against his shoulder. He’s too tall and they’re too old, but he doesn’t dare voice a complaint. Not when he finally has all he’s ever asked for.

“They like you,” he murmurs after a moment and John laughs. It rumbles against his back.

“How do you know?”

“I just do,” he replies, stealing John’s mug and taking a sip. He can feel John’s gaze on the side of his face, but he remains focused on the hives and the mist surrounding them, closing his eyes and listening to the low buzz of its occupants.

“Are you really retired?” John asks after a moment and Sherlock’s eyes shoot open, unexpected panic thundering against his chest.

“The Game rather lost its luster,” he says carefully. “Why? Worried you’ll be bored?”

The corner of John’s mouth quirks up wryly. “I’ve grown weary of the chase. The only adrenaline boost I need these days is when Rosie brings a boy home.”

Sherlock stops, a new kind of dread filling him. “Has she done so, yet?”

“Not yet. But…” John trails off and narrows his eyes at some unseen foe on the horizon. “It’s coming.”

“How do you know?”

“She’s being cagier than usual.”

Sherlock snorts. “You sure that wasn’t just me?”

“No,” John chuckles. “I know her well enough by now. She’s.. flustered. And checking her phone more often than normal. She’s infatuated with someone.”

Sherlock hums and takes another sip of coffee, going for casualness. “Has she shown any interest in bringing a girl home?”

“Not yet, but if she does, then praise be,” John replies, earning a kiss from Sherlock in return.

And that’s when he realizes that he needs to know what John’s plan is, if this future, Rosie’s future, _their_ future is something he can invest in. He needs to know how long he’s staying because Sherlock is afraid he’s about to ask John for forever, and he needs to know if John is willing to give it to him.

“How much did you pack?”

John blinks his gaze away from the bees and leans back to focus on Sherlock. “Sorry?”

“For this trip. How much did you pack?” If he sounds frenzied, well, it can't be helped.

John swallows. “As much as I could fit.” He grunts as Sherlock leans over to place the coffee mug on the ground.

“When are you leaving?” he asks when he rights himself once more.

“Um, Wednesday.”

The blood drains from his face. “As in tomorrow?”

“Yeah, I have a shift at the surgery on Thursday.”

“Ah.” Sherlock tries not to show how crestfallen he feels. ‘Crestfallen’ would be a step up though from what he actually feels. Surely, it’s something closer to ‘devastated.’ _Forty-eight hours. That’s it._

“And then…” John continues, ignorant of the human panic attack in his lap. “I’m putting in my two weeks’ notice.”

 _Wait._ Now it’s Sherlock’s turn to lean back and blink. “... What?”

John inhales and presses his lips to Sherlock’s shoulder through his dressing gown, his breath warm through the cotton. “Turns out your local GP is looking to partially retire. Given that he’s the only doc in town, he felt it necessary to bring in some part time help. I told him I was moving into the area and would gladly submit by CV for consideration.”

Sherlock blinks some more. “He’s who you were on the phone with yesterday.”

John hums and presses another kiss. “Was that… okay?”

“You. You’re moving here.”

John pulls away, looking suddenly stricken. “Yes, I thought - I thought that’s what you wanted. That was the plan.”

“Well yes,” Sherlock splutters, “but I didn’t think you’d actually do it!”

“Seriously? Sherlock Holmes, after all this time - ” but whatever John was about to say next (quite indignantly, no doubt) is lost against the press of Sherlock’s lips, his words transforming to moans to be swallowed up by the mouth pressing insistently against his own.

They know it’s time to move inside when they nearly tip the chair over, but not before tripping over the blanket and knocking over the mug in the process.

Between the cries and the moans and the whispered promises, Sherlock takes a moment to realize that this is his life now. And he feels terrible for the look on John’s face when he bursts into giggles mid-coitus.

“A time and a place, love,” John growls, snapping his hips.

The giggles promptly end after that, replaced by something a lot more… vocal.

*****

John leaves on Wednesday and Sherlock calls Mycroft on Thursday. On Saturday, John returns with Rosie in tow and the entirety of their belongings arrive on Monday. Despite the faulty boiler, it’s the warmest the cottage has ever felt in all the years he’s lived here.

They have Christmas with Mrs. Hudson that year, the lot of them. Sherlock has a feeling it may be her last and he’s not wrong, no matter how much he wishes he were. But he’s so focused on making sure she has the best holiday ever that deducing the presents, for once, is not at the top of his list. Which is why he’s absolutely gobsmacked to turn around and find John on one knee and a ring box in his hand.

They’re married in March in the town’s local chapel and the reception is at the cottage, close friends and family only. When John asks him why he wanted to get married so quickly (“ _Not that I’m complaining,”_ he says) Sherlock merely shrugs. But then Mrs. Hudson gets sick two weeks later, and passes three weeks after that, and John knows exactly why Sherlock wanted to get married as soon as he did.

John holds him throughout the funeral as Rosie curls up on his other side, hand reaching across John’s lap to hang onto Sherlock’s. Mrs. Hudson ( _Nana_ ) leaves them 221. Rosie moves into it that spring break, promising to return to the country every weekend.

But ‘every weekend’ becomes ‘every other weekend’ once Rosie starts dating a boy named Matthew, a fellow student at Oxford with a focus in Economics. He’s clearly terrified to meet them and Sherlock takes great delight in telling stories of his goriest cases. John doesn’t stop him once and, in fact, shags him quite thoroughly that evening. Matthew looks slightly horrified over breakfast. Rosie, merely resigned.

That June, she presents John with a Father’s Day card, but he looks somewhat anxious to receive it. Sherlock understands why when she presents him with one as well a moment later. He stares at it, unseeingly, for a solid minute before John clears his throat and he snaps back to the present. Rosie is looking at him with that fond, I-know-you’re-not-good-with-this-sort-of-stuff expression she gets whenever anything sentimental happens, but she steps forward and wraps her arms around him, whispering. “Happy father’s day, Papa,” in his ear. He manages to keep it together remarkably well (certainly better than John does, who begins silently crying the minute “Papa” leaves Rosie’s lips), but that night, John cups Sherlock’s cheek and quietly asks, “Where shall we put our daughter’s cards?” and Sherlock promptly breaks down into sobs.

Sherlock Holmes officially adopts Rosie a week later ( _Thank you, Mycroft)_ , despite the fact that she’s legally an adult, and Rosamund Katherine Sherlock Watson becomes Rosamund Katherine Sherlock Watson-Holmes.

The years continue in much the same fashion. For Rosie, boyfriends (and girlfriends) come and go. For them, new aches come, but they never quite fade away. Eventually Rosie settles down with a fellow named Henry, but she doesn’t take his name (“I’m quite content with the ones I’ve got, thank you very much.”). Three years after that, they make John and Sherlock grandfathers. A boy, Declan John. And two years after that, a girl, Imogen Sherlock.

John barks out a laugh when she tells them and presses a kiss to Sherlock’s blushing cheek as the newborn squalls in his arms. “I suppose it really is a girl’s name after all.”

 

 

True to John’s prediction, they get thirty more years together.

And then some.


End file.
